The Thing You Hate
by MicheleChadwick
Summary: Sometimes you should be careful how you judge, you never know when you may become the thing you hate, or at least dislike a bit. Wandering in the realms of fanfic really should carry a health warning folks. If you can hang in there you'll get the joke and past chapter 11 there be actual Winchesters.
1. Chapter 1 Duck ponds and toddlers

**Chapter 1**

Michele Chadwick jumped as her phone buzzed with a notification, staring down at it, she was surprised to see an email from fan fiction notifying her of a review on "Thing of Beauty."

For a second the woman glared at her phone as if offended, before a happy squeak and some rather realistic quacking from the small curly haired child seated beside her on the park bench drew her attention.

 _"Now is good, leave it at that"_ she advised herself silently.

With a rueful sigh, she tussled the child's hair and turned her green eyes back to the scene before her, the water of the duck pond reflected the deep blue of the sky above, ruffled by the light summer breeze. The ducks clustered round her feet, surrounding the bench and spilling into the water like a mass of obsessed worshippers.

Her small duck obsessed son pulled another slice of bread from the bag, tossing small bits out into the feathered quacking sea, some ducks were even jumping into the air to reach the morsels of bread doled out. Catching her eye the kid shoved the other half of the bread slice into his mouth, munching with his cheeks puffed out.

"Come on you little beastie, if you are so hungry you have to eat duck bread, let's get you home and fed. You quack enough without eating like a duck too."

Sweeping the wriggling toddler up into her arms she headed back across the grass, through the gorgeous New Zealand day, to the silver people mover that sat alone in the car park.

Small charge strapped carefully in the back, the woman drove towards home, finding her mind nudging uncomfortably back towards the fanfic review waiting for attention on her phone.

It surprised her a little, all of her die-hard reviewers had reviewed, Thing of Beauty should now be buried quietly in the fanfic archives. Forgotten.

She really couldn't work it out, but every time she thought about the story she'd written, she felt... guilty.

She knew it was stupid but she felt like she'd been responsible for hurting two human beings.

Sam and Dean Winchester were fictional characters from a series of not very popular books, two brothers who fought the forces of Evil with a capital E and lived stuffed up lives doing the best they could to save the world and each other, despite what got thrown at them.

She'd found the books at a time in her life when frankly her life had been falling to pieces, her beloved, intelligent, self-confident, now 8-year-old son, had become a broken shivering neurotic wreck.

She'd seriously thought he'd been molested at school or something.

Finally, after dragging through 'the system' filled with panic, confusion, heartbreak, self-recriminations and soul rending horror 'The experts' had informed her "Your child is high functioning autistic."

Then while she was still reeling they'd shaken her hand, told her they'd contact her with appointments as waiting lists permitted and told her to "have a nice day."

For months, the system had been silent, while she watched the person she loved most in the world (not that she would EVER admit that to her husband or other 3 kids) disappear and become someone else, someone she didn't recognise. There were no words to describe how she'd felt. Looking back on it now, she'd gone a quiet very functional kind of mad. Caring for her family with a mechanical kind of obsessive desperation while spending every other waking moment researching obsessively trying to FIX IT!

The realisation came to her one day between sobbing snotty tears and the millionth journal article on Autism that she was looking at the person she loved most in the world, the light of her life, as a problem to fix. It led to more tears and a decision to stop, stop trying to bring back what she thought she had for the first 7 years of her son's life and try and accept and live with what she did.

Sam and Dean Winchester had been part of that, a distraction and a kind of industrial strength pain killer. Somehow reading about two people going through Hell (sometimes quite literally) helped. Their sense of duty, family and humour in the face of a life that pretty much was a clusterf ck, well it was a Thing of Beauty and helped her not feel so alone. It gave her hope to put one foot in front of the other dealing with the little evils with a small e that were daily life with a loved one with an invisible disability that so few people 'got' and a system that seemed to be designed to make any sane person snap and go postal.

There were days when she was dealing with an 'expert' or teacher or principal where the fantasy of beheading with a machete and salting and burning a corpse was hard to ignore ... but it also sort of helped with the anger that bubbled just below the surface.

The problem was that like most heavy-duty pain killers she'd gotten hooked and when the supply of Carver Edlunds books had run out she'd been forced to more... disreputable sources...

Fan fiction.

The major problem with fan fiction was, like back street drug dealers, some fic writers were peddling the worst imaginable form of crap.

It, had, been, a, horrible, education!

There were all sorts of horrors out there that a nice, rather sheltered, naive middle aged Christian lab tech turned housewife and mum of 4 had never imagined.

But she'd found some writers that stuck to what was apparently referred to as cannon, wrote stories with actual plots and didn't use the two guys she'd begun to think of as 'friends' as blow-up dolls for their own amusement... so it was ok.

But then, then, Thing of Beauty had happened to her. Oh, it had started out so innocently, write one of your own. A beach trip, what could go wrong...

Somehow, she'd ended up being responsible for hurting and traumatising 'her friends' but been unable to stop writing because otherwise the images stayed in her head clawing at the inside, stopping her from sleeping and almost driving her crazy. So she'd pushed through and finished the bloody fanfic story then decided she would never ever, ever do that again.

No way, no how!

She'd read other people's work (as long as she stayed away from the yucky stuff) and she'd write to the few fanfic reviewers and authors she'd sort of got to know through the experience. But no more writing, it just messed with her head. And she really didn't need that.

...

Two hours later, four kids were fed, one toddler was down for his nap.

And one autistic bumblebee activist had delivered a half hour lecture unto her on achievement of lucid dream states based on his research morning googling and watching YouTube. Shaking her head to herself in bemusement she wondered if she should mention the Supernatural book with 'African dream root' in it to her small genius, but decided the last thing she needed was to expose her sensitive heart on his sleeve kid to anything even _slightly_ related to Supernatural.

Monsters, blood and violence could stay the f ck away from the kid, she thought of as 'her Sam.' The real world hurt him enough, no need to traumatise him or add to his worries with make believe stuff. Despite eating the provided sustenance, the two ornamental couch cover teens appeared to had not moved from their position on the couch with their iPads, all morning probably, but for now she'd let them be, after all they'd babysat the autistic little brother, while she took out the smallest Chadwick out to run him ragged and have his daily duck fix.

So now, for a little while, there was free time. It was time for coffee, that review and to check in on her American ficwriter friend "Peaches."

Well that was weird!

Staring down at the review from "SWrocksaltandsilver" Michele frowned

"I'm sorry the stuff that happened in Montauk messed with your head. Don't take it on board too much, life happens.  
SW"

For long moments Michele stared at the message. SWrocksaltandsilver was sorry that the stuff that happened in Montauk had upset her?

Umm ...?!

Last she checked, she'd written "Thing of Beauty" if anyone was responsible for the events that had 'happened' in Montauk it most definitely WAS Michele Chadwick.

That said, she guessed it was polite to reply.

What SWrocksaltandsilver had written was odd, but it was kind of nice. She'd take odd, nice, and sympathetic over the avid 'make them hurt more so I can watch them bleed' PMs she'd gotten. Right now though, she wanted to tell Peaches about it.

Opening Skype she found Peaches on her contacts list.

"Hi Peaches how's my favourite American ficwriter doing? Guess what, I got another review on Thing of Beauty."

She typed wondering if her young friend was napping, the time zone across the world thing, was confusing but Peaches habit of staying up most of the night writing, then sleeping at odd hours, putting her into a nearly New Zealand routine.

"Told you it happens from time to time" came Peaches zen reply

"So, did the hit of the good stuff change your mind, are you ready to admit defeat and start writing again?"

A smile curved Michele's lips, yes there'd been a little jolt of the pleasure that came with seeing someone had written a review, read something she'd written ... even if she had mixed feelings about the story itself. Admitting that to Peaches though, that'd be starting down the slippery slope.

"You, Peaches, you're a Good writer, you deserve to be condemned to a never ending eternity of being a ficwriter ... maybe even a grownup author one day... me ... nah there's no proof I'm any good, not unless a really good writer like you reads it and tells me it doesn't totally suck. (But not you, cos you might lie and be nice, just so you can have company in your damnation. Besides you don't have time to read my crud, I'm waiting impatiently for your next chapter update! ) Writing one little fanfic can't condemn me, I can get out, lead a normal life..."

"Awww come on you know you want to" Peaches response made her snort in amusement, she was pretty sure Peaches was right.

"The review was a bit weird..."

"Weird how?"

Copying and pasting Michele dumped a copy of the review into the Skype instant message box.

"You're right that is a bit weird"

"Not exactly creepy weird though..."

The silence stretched and Michele wondered what Peaches was up to

"There's no Bio on the account or favourited stories" Peaches informed her.

"I always forget about the Bios I never filled one in."

"I updated mine recently."

"You know I've never looked at it... I'm like a cat, prefer things I hunt and kill myself."

The laughing emoji popped up in the Skype box.

"So are you going to hunt and kill SWrocksaltamdsilver too? Add her to your captive collection of ficwriters? You know if we all stopped talking to you you'd fold and start writing again."

"And if I stopped talking to you, you might actually sleep!" A fond smile quirked Michele's lips "or maybe you'd just reach your 400k New Year's resolution word count quicker, without me annoying you so often, oh great and most dedicated ficwriter"

"Jokes on you, I'm not annoyed"

"-sigh- I'm doing it all wrong again, and I try so hard! I'm going to go send rocksalt a message."

"Don't you have enough in your collection yet?"

"Nah I've only got three, you, the cat, and the social worker... the other two are just emails every few days. You my fruity American friend, are my favourite!"

"Awww"

Closing the Skype box and leaving Peaches to get on with writing, or napping, or eating cheese from a can for all she knew, Michele wondered how to reply to SWrocksaltandsilver's review.


	2. Chapter 2 Where in the world is SW

**Chapter 2**

For while Michele just sat and stared at the review, then slowly began typing.

"Hi SW thanks for the review, I really appreciate it (I think,) I'm still working out how I feel about, how did you put it? "the stuff that happened in Montauk" I know Sam and Dean are fictional characters, but still, I can't help feeling I was instrumental in hurting two people I genuinely like and respect. It did indeed mess with my head! I'm actually trying to give up writing fanfic at the moment, I mean, I only wrote the one... surely, I can kick the habit. But ... I've been told there's no escape once you start. Your review was pretty much a glass of whiskey to an alcoholic. Now I have to cash in my sobriety chip again *sigh* Back to the 12-step program and my unwavering belief in a higher power.

So, let's play a game it's called "Where in the world is SW"(ever play that game where in the world is Carmen Santiago? It was designed to teach kids geography.) If I win you can write back and tell why you're lurking here in fanfic. Ok so I'm guessing you're in America, parts unknown. How did I do?

MC2"

...

Half an hour later her phone announced there was an email from fanfic informing her she had a PM from SWrocksaltandsilver.

How nice, SW was going to play!

"Hi Michele, you win. You're correct, on both actually. America and the parts unknown (we are currently driving between places and it's too dark to see where we are. So, I'll give that to you as a correct guess.)

Yes, I do know what "Where in the world is Carmen Santiago" was, over here it was also a TV program on PBS when I was 8 or 9. I used to really like watching it, to be honest. Though my brother really hated it.

I'm sorry if I messed with your fan fiction writers anonymous rehab program, it wasn't my intention, honestly.

It would be wonderful if some of the writers on here had access to that 12-step program. But I think maybe, the ones that need it the most, wouldn't.

You however, forgive me for saying this, you might not escape as easily as you hope. I'm sorry about that, truly. You seem like a nice normal person.

So, I guess I better pay my dues. Why am I lurking in fanfic? The easy answer is, simple curiosity, the hard answer? I'm not entirely sure. I promise to let you know, if I work it out.

So, are you really from New Zealand? I loved Lord of The Rings, the scenery there looks amazing.

Not that America isn't pretty amazing in places, I've crossed it from "Sea to shining sea" many times for work. But actually, we very rarely see the sea. It occurs to me you might not understand the reference to "Sea to shining sea" it refers to a song called "America the Beautiful," it's an American patriotic song.

Are the other details in your authors notes real? I find I have a lot of questions, but I hesitate to ask them.

SW"

...

Well, that was a nice long PM back Michele thought with a smirk, there was every chance Peaches was right.

She might be adding another fanfic denizen to the ranks of people she talked with semi regularly.

Collecting people was probably not the best habit in the world but she thought it was sort of like methadone for ficwriters, the problem was... there was that weird feeling in the back of her head again, that had happened before she'd started writing "Thing of Beauty."

Scrolling up again she reread SW's words again.

 _"You however, forgive me for saying this, you may not escape as easily as you hope. I'm sorry about that, truly. You seem like a nice normal person."_

SW was a tiny bit odd, but she would stand by the "kind of nice" bit of her earlier thoughts as well.

Closing her eyes, she rubbed her temples where yet another headache was beginning to gather.

Too much screen time she thought sourly. I'm as bad as the girls!

Well SW could wait, there were chores to do and two teenage daughters to prod with a stick.

" _We can do some family bonding ... Washing folding time"_ , she thought with a sigh... because she loved folding washing, about as much as her precious teenagers did, she just hid it better.

Because, after all, that's what being a mother was about, teaching by example and creating decent members of society.

Family, duty and service. Despite how different her life was from the fictional world the Winchesters inhabited, there were more than a few similarities too.

It's just the monster she was steeling herself to battle was many, many baskets of clothes that needing folding. Snarling teens and the autistic meltdown she'd -possibly- have to endure, when she informed his royal autistic highness that he would be putting his washing away and until it was put away, the iPad would be off limits.

There was actually quite a bit of bravery involved too…..sometimes it led to ducking flying objects and bruises.

Transitions between activities could be counted on to be really hard for autistic kids, there were times they just sort of flipped a switch and her otherwise gorgeous compliant 8-year-old, would go into flight or fight mode. It wasn't personal, and afterwards he'd torture himself over it.

He didn't mean it... That's what made it so hard, it was like dealing with unstable explosives... you had to became hyper aware all the time trying to predict and avoid. Or just brace for impact. It was why they said parents of autism often suffered something similar to the combat fatigue, that soldiers suffered in long term active combat. A weird fact of life she'd read about many times.

She got that, she accepted that. You rolled the dice when you had kids and if you really lucked out you got a genius kid, that gave you a side order of PTSD.

...So she'd go poke the teens into being useful members of society instead of entitled little madams.

And then go roll the autism dice, possibly, to duck the slings and arrows of outraged autistim, calmly and most definitely with a dose of humour (because it's a thing of beauty) she would insist on completion of the task set before them, because it was her responsibility, and failing wasn't an option.

Yip the monsters were different, the danger not as extreme but a Winchester philosophy sure helped. Though she reserved the right to exchange whiskey for fanfic to get through the day... Because really, what idiot wants to deal with 4 kids and a hangover.

Speaking of headaches, first, a dose of ibuprofen might be a good idea.


	3. Chapter 3 Messages at Dawn

**Chapter 3**

It was 5am, she'd woken to a small black cat nibbling on her fingers and a 2-year-old breathing in her ear, with his small fingers tangled in her hair.

Distangling with practiced skill and sliding out of bed, cautious not to wake baby or hubby, she followed the cat down to her bowl. The cat wake surfed before her, like a dolphin, narrowly missing tripping her on the way down the steps.

Cat fed, jug on to boil for coffee, she picked up her phone off charge, wondering if Peaches had finished that chapter she'd been _still_ working on when she'd bid her goodnight and gone to watch a movie with hubby, the previous evening.

Yes! Not only had Peaches finished the chapter, but there was also an email from both, her favourite Slovenian Cat and the really talented social worker, who should, if the world was a fair place, be a real author.

Looking out the window, at the brightening line along the hills starting to dispel the darkness and heralding a new day, she curled on the sofa, the question was; Where to start with such riches?

That's right, she owed SW a reply, too, didn't she?

First in line, gets first attention. SW it was then.

"Hi SW, it's a new day here in New Zealand.

Yes, that's really where I am, the authors notes are all true. In fact, my name actually is my pen name, I had a brain fade when signing up ... apparently we aren't supposed to do that, use your real name as a pen name, according to my Slovenian fanfic friend "the cat."

But hey, I hardly think it matters. I'm in New Zealand, the number of people here who have actually read Carver Edlunds books, let alone actually end up reading fanfic because of them... Well they probably can be counted on one hand.

My writing (the whole one I've written) is neither good enough to inspire homicidal fans (like in Steven Kings "Misery") nor bad enough to merit execution to protect literature from worse crimes... so, I recon I'm pretty safe.

I must say I'm impressed with my own skills of deduction - though let's be honest it was a pretty good bet, about 90% of Supernatural fanfic readers/writers are in America.

So rocksaltandsilver is pretty obvious in a sort of 'Supernatural' way.

SW are either your initials... Or are you a "Sam girl?" *frowns thoughtfully* You don't sound quite right for one of those, though.

So ... Hmmm are you a Sophie, a Stephanie, a Samantha, a Shelly, or a Sandra ... ?

Feel free not to answer all and any questions. I know if you're in America - paranoia and keeping safe is probably not quite so silly there, in the land of "the right to bare arms" and "global terror attacks." Feel free to ask me questions, my life is pretty dull really. The major excitements at Casa Chadwick: things like coming home from church to find an injured seagull on our front lawn. We are about 30 minutes' drive from a beach so it was rather unusual and sort of odd, because, that was the day I finished the sandcastle scene on Thing of Beauty. Possibly all the ocean vibes emanating from our residence attracted it. Who knows? Sometimes life is just weird. I never thought I'd ever take a seagull to the vet, but that's what happened. Believe me it was the preferable option my bumblebee activist REALLY wanted to keep it as a pet, black backed seagulls are vicious, so the vet trip was the smart option. He still cried like he was losing his only friend when we left it there. Anyway, SW have a nice day on the other side of the world.

MC2"

Sending her reply off into the inter webs she did the math, +5 minus a day.

Would Peaches be up? Probably not, heaven knew how late the kid had stayed up writing the previous night.

"You up yet?"

The Skype box stayed empty and still. There was a chance Peaches was out enjoying a dose of fresh air. But the likelihood was she was curled up asleep cuddling her laptop and her golden retriever, dreaming up ideas for a new chapter or one shot. It was more fun to read Peaches next instalment when she was round, so next were the emails.

Snow pictures from Cat! Not having snow where she lived Michele found the whole snow thing both disturbing and fascinating in equal measure. It was so pretty to look at, but it was cold and wet, two things she hated. Photos were a nice compromise. Hoping the power outages Cat mentioned weren't a huge issue and her friend was warm and safe she zapped off a quick reply and attached a few summer duck pond photos for good measure.

The lounge door cracked open and two small faces peered through, one small black and furry. One cheeky and dimpled. The slightly demonic duo of baby and cat were ready for another day of mayhem, both headed down the hallway with a set purpose in mind. Moments later, the sound of a small metal car impacting with his big sister's bedroom door made her grin hugely.

Who needs an alarm clock in a household with the baby and cat wake up gang at work?

A minute later a dishevelled grumpy looking teenaged daughter emerged, followed by a two year old demanding "Oootuuubbbee" - Because Mummy didn't know how to make YouTube work (oh yes she did but that's our little secret) but big sister did.

Receiving the special teenglare that translates as "Hey, the corner bit of the couch is mine, what are you doing there" Michele got up and relinquished the coveted position, leaving teen and two year old to commune with the electronics. It was time to make porridge for Mr 2 and coffee and toast to lure the hubby out of bed.

The sun had risen and peace and quiet was at an end. Time to go do the adult thing.

At some point, Peaches turned up on Skype and making breakfast for the family became an exercise in multitasking. Reading Peaches latest chapter sort of stalled things a bit.

"You evil, mean, cruel ficwriter! Poor Sam, poor Dean, he'll go nuts, how could you?! And a cliff-hanger, you torture everyone, how do you do it?"

"Bwhahaha"

Michele smiled and shook her head, Peaches loved what she did. If the plot arc called for suffering Winchesters, she wrote it with no personal angst, then dropped a cliff-hanger at the end to torture her readers too.

Michele sighed in envy, she could read Peaches suffering Winchesters but writing... that was different. Writing TOB had been like been like sitting in the room unable to do anything. The images of blood on abused skin were as real as any memory of her daily life. So much realer than watching some TV program.

That was so, not normal and it really disturbed her.

"By the way I caught a grammar mistake in the second paragraph, third line" she informed Peaches, wondering if that was stepping out of line.

Personally she liked to know, mistakes irritated her, but editing was sort of an afterthought, one that required a PC so it only happened occasionally, during nap-time. Dumping Thing of Beauty onto fanfic as quick as she wrote it had been a compulsion, get it out, and away from her, to stop the images.

"Thanks, found it, fixed it!" - O.K. so playing grammar police wasn't overstepping, thank-goodness.

"Want a coffee?" snapping a photo of the coffee cups, she sent it via skype to be a smart ass.

"Be a bit cold by the time I got it"

"Yep, but it's hardly my fault you have the horrible bad taste to live so far away." Sipping her coffee, she mused on Peaches chapter "Deans going to blame himself isn't he? And I bet Johns going to blame Dean too, forget who the parent actually is. Notice how John always calls Sam "Your brother" rather than my son."

"Sam was pretty much Deans, since he carried him out of the fire."

"Yeap, poor kid never had a chance. "Take care of Sammy," was never a choice, was it? It was trained into him before he could even fight it."

"Over-protective guilt ridden big brother, you love it."

"I don't think I can judge Deans psyche. It's too… hypocritical, I have 'my Sam' after all, plenty of duty, guilt and over-protection here. Speaking of, I better go parent."


	4. Chapter 4 Hunter or hunted?

**Chapter 4**

After a morning spent doing chores, chasing balls, exploring the outdoors and supervising the transformation of a two-year-old into the 'sand creature from beyond the back fence.' Michele decided coffee was in order, while the arcane process of exorcizing the sand monster with some not so holy bath water proceeded, supervised by big brother.

Leaning in the bathroom doorway sipping her coffee she watched the process indulgently. Apparently, exorcism of sand monsters required quite a bit of splashing, giggling and yelling. Ducking a particularly enthusiastic spray of water Michele decided to take a few bath photos to store away for later parental humiliation purposes... say a 21st birthday party.

Kids grew up too quick, photos pinned down the moment. "This too shall pass," the most comforting and heart rending words in the world.

Oh, yay there was a reply from SWrocksaltandsilver! First though, the troops needed drying, dressing, feeding and the smallest one needed a nap.

Mission accomplished, Michele watched two 15 year olds and an 8-year-old head out the door 'to the park.'

Michele knew going to the park was kid code for going to the dairy to waste our pocket money on sweets but ... well some days getting the 8-year-old bumblebee activist to go out of the house was a mission. An unsolicited outing was Never to be sneezed at, if sugar was what it took, sugar was what it took.

Wandering into her bedroom Michele flopped on the bed, clutching her phone.

Silence descended, broken by a patter of paws in the hallway, a jingle of a small collar bell and the impact of a small black cat on the bed beside her.

"Slinky Minx, the foolish SWrocksaltandsilver has fallen into my cunning trap" she informed her feline companion, stroking her black fur and feeling a bit like an evil mastermind "Soon, I shall add her to my collection," she intoned and grinned opening SWs message.

"Hi Michele, I'm Sam, sometimes Sammy. The only person that calls me Samantha is my brother, when he being an ass. I am not a Sam girl, as you put it, I'm not a Dean girl either, before you ask. The whole Sam and Dean girl thing, is sort of freaky if you ask me!

Your seagull story made me smile. Sometimes a normal dull life sounds really attractive, my brother and I are private investigators - too often we see the darker side of life.

You think Americans are paranoid Hu? Possibly you're right, there could just be more out to get us here. You still should be more careful online though, you give an awful lot about yourself away.

So, looking back at your authors notes, you live in New Zealand. You are married to a man that you describe as 'techno hubby.' You are the writer of the family. You're a stay at home mother, have four children, a son with autism, who has green eyes and prays, another one who's two years old and ?two? daughters, one of whom is in high school. You were a lab tech, possibly one that worked in a high security laboratory. You are an expert in particle physics, theology and cake decoration (interesting combination.) You spent a lot of time being sick while pregnant. You have some sort of religious leaning, probably Christian, from your comments about Christmas. Owned a motorbike jacket and a pet rock, so possibly a motorbike too. You get migraines, do you get them often? You also seem to be disturbed by hurt or hurting Winchesters. And now I know your real name and that you live within 30 minutes' drive of a beach. That's a lot of personal information... It seems greedy to want more. But if I ask you a question you're more likely to write back. So, here's my question and it's one you asked me "Why Supernatural fanfic?"

I'm looking forward to your answer.

Sam"

Michele looked at her phone uncertainly, that was a lot of information, she'd scattered throughout Thing of Beauty, suddenly she felt uncomfortable.

Who was hunting who, here? With Peaches, Cat and The social worker... there had never been that level of scrutiny or if there was, none of them had ever spelled it out quite so clearly. Maybe it was just Sam's job, there was a definite vibe of intelligent scrutiny about that PM which made her edgy.

Suddenly, she wondered if any of her other 'captive' fanfic people had been creeped out by her gentle prying and guessing games. Possibly turnabout was fair play. She still thought Sam was probably harmless and could make an interesting diversion.

"Hi Sam, sometimes Sammy! It's nice to meet you, without meeting you. I take it back, there were a few untruths in my authors notes for Thing of Beauty, I'm not an expert in particle physics, theology or cake decorating. I simply know enough to get by!

Why fan fiction? I started reading the Supernatural books as a distraction to stop myself obsessively researching autism after my son was diagnosed with it just over a year ago. I'm not a Sam or Dean girl either, but I've come to like and respect them.

Maybe it's the idea that I can be brave and get through my own hell (I can't even begin to explain how my sons sudden decent into autism broke me to pieces) if the Winchester boys can get through theirs. Stupid Hu?

Being a private investigator must be... hmmm ... your tone implies it can sometimes be rough. Do you like your job, maybe that's the wrong question... maybe I should ask if you're good at it instead. Your tone also implies your brother is both an ass and important to you, I've got an older brother who's a geologist (he works in oil exploration, it's not as huge an industry here, as in USA but we are a long way away from most places so it is viable) he doesn't live close and I miss him at times, but he's married with kids of his own ... growing up and away sucks a bit. I guess that could be part of the fascination people have with Supernatural, two brothers with that tight bond into adulthood. Maybe we all have that longing deep down, to still believe our older sibling hung the stars in the sky and will have our back against everything, even the unwieldy forces of the parents.

I speak as the younger sibling here. Heaven knows if the older sibling misses having an annoying kid brother or sister following them round all the time.

The psychology of Supernatural fanfic denizens fascinates me. Maybe it's just because I'm still unsure how I got trapped here... possibly I'm simply trying to find out where I went wrong *self-deprecating grin* I concede I have no one to blame but myself. My advice Sam, make a run for it before curiosity turns into something worse, don't linger, don't drink the water and if you value your sanity... don't write anything!

God bless

MC2"


	5. Chapter 5 Not Abraham

**Chapter 5**

The next few days there was no reply from Sam, that wasn't at all unusual. When communicating with total strangers from across the world.

When you connect, you connect, when you don't, you don't. And if you never 'talk' again you wish the person well out there in their little bubble of the real world.

Peaches was studying for important tests, the teens were visiting their Aunty, the hubby was at work, the toddler was napping and the autistic genius 8-year-old was researching another topic of fascination.

It was one of those miracle moments, there was nothing that needed doing.

"How is it even possible?" Michele thought irritably wandering through the quiet, tidy house feeling restless and on edge. Pacing back and forth she found herself rubbing her hands together or combing them back through her hair, unable to stay still like a druggy suffering from DTs.

It was bizarre! That feeling you have forgotten something important, a feeling you are late and disaster is just out of sight waiting to strike. An itch in the back of your head gnawing away at your sanity.

Rubbing her knuckles against her lips until it hurt a little Michele closed her eyes, breathing through her nose in steadying breaths trying to work out what was wrong.

Maybe Peaches had been right.

"If we all stopped talking to you you'd fold and start writing again."

Was she just bored and at a loose end? So completely unused to simply just existing without something to do.

Walking back to the bedroom she picked up the bible from the bedside cabinet and sat down resolutely. There had been a time, before autism diagnosis, when the book in her hands had been the world to her. She bit her lip looking down to the slightly ragged bible.

Grief, anger, hurt, guilt and longing warred inside. There had been a time not so long ago when she'd wondered if she'd lost her faith entirely. When you love someone or something so completely you are filled with glorious confidence in your relationship... and then you run smack into something you never expected and discover that there is one thing you can't forgive. It shakes your world.

She wasn't Abraham, God could have asked her for anything... BUT NOT HER SON!

Now she could admit God wasn't cruel, He hadn't asked her to hold her son down and plunge a knife in him, He'd only asked her to let go of who she'd thought her son was and would be.

Stroking her fingers lightly over the leather cover she looked down at the bible she smiled a slightly bittersweet smile "But the jokes on me, isn't it? His name means 'God has given' he was always yours first, always what he was, I just couldn't see it. The most precious thing I have, you gave me, didn't you Lord? How can I not forgive you for this when you forgave and keep forgiving me for EVERYTHING." her voice wavered "I'm still hurting so bad and you are the only one that can heal me, but I won't let you touch me, because it hurts so bad. God! How can you be so patient with me? I'm using all my resistance on someone I can't resist. I know that, I just want to let go. Forgive and accept. But I feel like I'm reaching out into the dark. Father, can't you just pick me up and overwhelm my silly struggles. Help me get past this and on with whatever I'm supposed to be doing."

It was an old conversation, an old prayer. Today she meant it, tomorrow who could tell?

The pain in her head hit like a blow, clamping on like a vice. Blacking out her vision and filling her skull with blinding light.

An inarticulate cry of pain was ripped from her lips.

Migraine.

Curling on her side she buried her face in the pillow, the bible tumbled to the floor from numb hands.

Disjointed images filled her head.

A drop of blood rolled over colourless lips and soaked slowly into the pillowcase.

The world was breathing and pain.

Then the pain rolled back and the woman slipped into a light sleep.


	6. Chapter 6 Eating Peaches

**Chapter 6**

"Mum, M-u-m, MUM!" Michele sat up reluctantly pushing her glasses back up, swallowing thickly she looked back into one pair of green and gold eyes like summer hills, fringed with sooty lashes.

"Up eee go" chirped a singsong toddler voice from closer to mattress height, her eyes flicked lower, autumn eyes looked back with a grin and dimples.

For a second she just looked back at her boys, thinking how beautiful those two sets of eyes were, then noted the frown on her older son face. "What's up buttercup?" She queried shooting him a smile.

"There's, there's blood on your face" a frown pinched her older sons face, causing her guts to twist. She scrubbed her face with the back of her hand.

Thankfully at that moment the toddler picked up her bible off the floor, causing big brother to squawk in alarm and leap forward "No, no that's Mums!" He informed the rough handed, book loving toddler sternly, rescuing it.

"Thanks hon. One day you'll get a big person bible my sweet" she smiled at her oldest and informed the unhappy toddler "but right now destruct-o-beast your big brothers right, real bibles are off limits. Now let's go see if your greedy, messy Mummy left any strawberries for you two." It wasn't a lie exactly, just an implication that the stuff on her face was strawberry juice not blood.

"Eeees" the toddler crowed heading for the fridge. Her older son lingered a moment worried eyes lingering on her face before following. There were times when having a smart kid sucked! He wasn't reassured, but maybe she'd introduced enough doubt that he'd worry less.

Grabbing one of the ever-present baby wipes from a pack Michele checked her face in the mirror, it wasn't much, nothing to worry about, even if she never usually got nosebleeds.

Scrubbing away the evidence from her face, she flipped over her pillow to hide the red drops of accusation that marred the white surface.

The headache was still there, but when wasn't it these days?

It was manageable and no longer a migraine, after her unscheduled nap. She just needed more sleep, less stress and less screen time.

"John' can you get out the bowls" she called, dry swallowing some paracetamol as she walked out to the kitchen.

Two boys waited on one side of the bench with two bowls in front of them. Topping and slicing strawberries she added them to the bowls then added a pinch of icing sugar and two forks.

Her cell started ringing as the two boys trundled off carefully holding their bowls. Looking at the caller ID she smiled flipping it onto speaker phone.

"Hello, is it me you're looking for..." she sang as she answered.

"Um no! I was looking for my other wife" the husband replied cockily.

"Yeah, cos you could handle more than one of us" she teased "You on your way home?"

"Yeah, boil the jug for coffee now and I'll be there to drink it by the time it's made."

"Excellent!"

"You talking to Peaches again?" She smiled at his tone, interested and somewhat cheeky but you'd swear there was a bit of jealousy there too.

"Nope, Peaches is studying like a good girl."

"Yeah right she is..."

"Well if she isn't, I'm not the reason why she isn't. Actually, I've just woken up from a nap. And now the beasties are feasting on strawberries." She informed him, leaving out the migraine and bleeding nose.

"Lucky for some." Came the reply.

"A well-rested wife does make it more likely someone I know could, get lucky." She teased.

The front door opened and in walked the man himself.

"Eeees" announced the toddler handing his father a half-chewed strawberry.

When her husband thanked the small boy, and popped it into his mouth the older son let out a disgusted shriek of horror making both parents laugh.

"When your sisters were young, before we lived with Mummy, I would have starved if I didn't eat preloved food." His father announced half seriously.

The thought was too much for his autistic highness, he fled, shutting and locking his bedroom door to keep all thoughts of preloved food at bay.

"Well..."

"Just give him a bit, drink your coffee."

Her phone blipped and her husband picked it up,

"You've got a message from SWrocksaltandsilver, which ones that?" He asked tossing her, the phone.

"That's the new one, Sam, says she's a private investigator."

"Really?"

"Hey, I'm not saying she definitely is, it's what she said. Mostly I don't care. It's a distraction that keeps me from writing."

"I don't get what the problem with writing is? You're good at it."

"Peaches is good... "

"Yeah and you're always telling me what a good nice person she is, I read some of her stuff Michele. I'm sure whatever you wrote wasn't so bad and yet You aren't a good, nice person if you write?"

"It's just... different ... okay. It was like... I don't know. Maybe I will write again, but I just..." She faded off miserably.

"Go read your message from private investigator girl." It was a kindness, but it was also an escape for him. Because hubby really didn't get or feel comfortable with the whole emotions game. He pulled a bag out of his pocket, it contained a peach, tossing it to her he smirked and shot her a leer "While you're doing that you can eat Peaches and I can watch..."

Choking at the lurid suggestive tone she shot him a bitch-face to match anything Sam Winchester could muster up "You wish! You disgusting smart assed man, my Peaches is sweet and innocent and I don't swing that way."

There was a reason she'd once told Peaches her husband was like a much shorter, less pretty, monogamous Dean.

Leaving the room with her peach and shutting the door firmly so her husband could not watch, because now eating a peach was always going to be tad creepy. Michele read Sam's message.

"Hi Michele

Thanks for writing back, I've never really thought of the Supernatural books as something that help people be brave in hard situations, it is a strange idea. But I do get it, now I think about it.

I imagine having a child with autism is hard, I don't think struggling with that is stupid.

Yes, what we do is... sometimes rough. Do I like my job, heck I don't know! Am I good at it, yes, I think so. What we do makes a difference and at the end of the day it's what matters isn't it?

Your view of Sam and Dean is definitely different... so, if you don't mind I might hang around in fan fiction with you a bit longer, though I promise not to drink the water or write anything.

Today we are driving to LA (Los Angeles) it's about a 20-hour drive, we are following up a case involving an 80s-rock musician. Right now, we are driving and listening to the guy's music, its research. Honestly... it's also a great way to torture my smart-ass brother, he hates it! It's the little things in life that make it enjoyable. The last time we were in LA was ten years ago, it's bright and flashy and people are fast and fake. Does New Zealand have places like that? I envy your so called dull life, I'm sure it can't be that dull, in reality. Any stories of your so called dull life will be gratefully received.

Regards

Sam"

Stories of her life gratefully received. How could she resist? She knew just the thing.

"Hi Sam

If my dull life amuses you, how could I say no? In return send me tales of torturing your brother, but only gently please! And flashy fast and fake American cities and people. I'm sure we have a bit of that stuff here, but I don't see it. We are small town… sort of…. Anyway, I shall provide stories of Chadwick dullness with no extra charge.

So recently the kids and us adult parents have been playing soccer in the evenings, we have two goal nets and it's pretty much a free for all as each 'team' tries to score a goal (A team consists of one adult, one twin 15-year-old daughter and either Mr 2 or Mr autism. And on occasion the cat, she usually smooges round my legs while I'm being goalie making it nearly impossible for the opposite team to score. The cat, the 2-year-old and the 8-year-old are mostly hazards to be avoided and handicaps to work around). It's pretty mad, there are no real rules except don't kill each other, try not to break any windows, or hit a car going past on the road and don't lose the ball. I recon the neighbours must hate us some days or think we're trying to kill each other. But it's great fun.

Well the other morning hubby went out to his car before work and then there were frantic calls for my assistance.

A hedgehog had managed to get itself caught in the soccer goal net overnight. Driftnet fishing for hedgehogs on the front lawn. Another weird wildlife mishap to add to the seagull. So, of course there was major drama and angst to release said hedgehog. I don't know if you've heard the joke "How do hedgehogs have sex?" The answer is "Very carefully!" And that's how Chadwick's release trapped hedgehogs also, snipping carefully and unwinding the string out of hedgehog spikes... our soccer net now has a big hole in it.

Thankfully I managed to convince my angsting bumblebee activist that the hedgehog needed to be released into the wild or else it'd probably be wandering round underfoot in the house in the middle of the night when I get up to Mr 2 . I have photographic proof, which I could send you... but because you're a scaredy American and probably won't Skype or email. You Will Never See IT hehehe

MC2"


	7. Chapter 7 The answer is 42-No its flufff

**Chapter 7**

"I have the answer for your predicament" the words flashed up in the Skype box.

"What predicament is that?" Michele questioned feeling a bit like she'd walked into the end of a conversation again.

"Your fanfic angst. You want to write but you feel guilty for hurting Winchesters."

"Ummm possibly, yeah... I think..."

"So I have the answer!"

"The answer is 42, Peaches"

"Nope the answer is ... fluff"

"Fluff?"

"Fluff, you know Weechesters doing science projects, cutesy one shots... like Winchesters building sandcastles, you've done it. You said the reviewers liked it didn't they? So write the fluff and don't kick them first. Remember what you said about my current fic? That you thought it would go through the mess of the aftermath and make up for what I put Sam through in the previous one. That you liked that idea. So send them to Las Vegas for a week and wrap them in fluffy kittens or something."

Michele blinked, would that work? No angst, no molesting mermaids, no blood, only fluff.

"Umm I'll think about it. You know wrapping Dean in fluffy kittens is sort of torturing him though, right?"

The laughing emoji appeared in the Skype box followed by the devil.

Of course, Peaches did, Michele rolled her eyes wondering if maybe Peaches current fic might not be as healing for Sam as she'd assumed.

Yes, it couldn't hurt to research Las Vegas casinos, could it?... Just to get the feel of it. It didn't mean she would have to write anything, did it? She could sort of see a general plot forming, maybe a competition to see who was the best at blackjack or something...

Looking up news articles about Las Vegas couldn't hurt either or actually knowing how to play blackjack... Research, it didn't mean that she had to write anything... she was just playing.

...

Opening a new Gmail document and typing

"Chapter 1"

In the morning stillness Michele stared at the screen, feeling uncertain suddenly. It was like she was standing on the edge of a diving board looking down and down and down at water far below.

"Abandon all hope Ye who enter here." The woman murmured quietly to herself.

Rubbing her forehead, trying to massage the ever-present headache away she looked at her clipboard with all her lovely research. A baby waiting to be born.

As she typed, the pain in her head began to trickle away.

Words filled the screen so easily, like she was simply uncovering what already existed. In a way, she was, but they weren't the words that she'd expected.

The clipboard of research lay forgotten.

...

Frowning Michele read the words she'd written feeling numb, comfortably numb for the first time since she'd stopped writing "Thing of Beauty."

The cease of pain was so close to pleasure after so long living with pain, it was exactly how the straight laced little Christian girl imagined 'getting high' felt.

Wow! Laughing softly, she stared at the words in a weird kind of wonder. It wasn't even Supernatural fan fiction, well it was, but it wasn't, it was like an elaborate practical joke, mainly the joke was on her, wasn't it?

Self-insertion fanfics, were so... well, so self-indulgent.

Girls trying to live out their fantasies, imagining Sam or Dean would meet them and fall in love... cue the sappy music and hearts and flowers... or worse... Blerk blerk and double blerk.

The few times she'd stumbled on one she'd wondered if she should point out the mortality and injury rate of any woman that the boys got emotionally involved with... even Jo and Charlie hadn't lived long.

No, the Winchester boys could stay in America far, far away from her and her family. Thanks!

They could keep all their imaginary monsters with them.

What she had at home, and in her bed, was more than enough trouble. Her over sexed, smart ass, hubby with his peach comments, did her head in quite enough!

In fact, if anyone ever bothered to ask her what her fantasy was, it would involve a whole week in solitary confinement.

No one needing her, no one wanting her and no one touching her. Preferably with no one even looking at her!

Like the self-insert girl's fantasies though, it would never happen in this universe.

Again, she read through what she'd written with a wry smile. Gosh it was complete drivel!

But it was …..sort of fluffy too wasn't it? It was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth... so, help her God!

And best of all she could honestly say "No Winchesters were harmed in the making of this fanfic."

She was pretty sure she wouldn't get a single review for her trouble either. But that was more than ok. The feeling of release from writing was enough.

More than enough.

What would Peaches, Sam, Cat and The social worker have to say though?

A slightly defiant smile curved her lips, it was better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission, wasn't it?


	8. Chapter 8 fic purgatory

**Chapter 8**

While Michele was dumping her Gmail file into a word document, correcting spelling and adding yet more commas (she really liked commas for some unknowable reason) Peaches popped into Skype.

Time to confess her treasons she supposed. All her defiant thoughts crumbled, after a style Peaches was her friend and you didn't just use your friend's actual lives as fuel for bad fanfic, not without giving them a heads up or giving them a right of refusal.

Guilt, it was one of the things she excelled in.

"Peaches?" She typed uncertainly cringing slightly.

"Yeah?"

"I've got a confession... I've been writing "

"Hahaha, knew it! There is no escape."

"Don't laugh too hard, you don't know what I've done... it's weird...

And you're in it. Not by name of course...but it's you.

It's a sort of self-insert and practical joke, (I hate self inserts, not as much as Destiel and the other "Ships"... but.. ) so, it appears mostly the jokes on me. And a little on you."

"I'm in it?"

"Not so funny, now is it?"

"I've never been in a fic "

"I'll bin it, I really shouldn't go there again anyway" she offered, resolutely thinking it was probably for the best.

Her head began to ache again.

"Go on post it. You know you want to."

"Really?! -big grin- I DO, really, want to... it was soo good writing again. Even if it's total drivel."

"Maybe I'll even read it"

"Typical" she teased feeling lighter than air "you won't read TOB ...it was traumatic for me and I know I whine about it but... (but trauma is your bread and butter) ...But at least it has a decent plot, that I am sort of proud of . Then, when I have accepted that you will never read anything I write ...you go and offer to read "The Thing You Hate" which is rubbish... it's so unfair! At least don't tell me how awful it is unless you want me to delete it for defamation of character. You reviewing my crud would be like Shakespeare judging a third graders poetry or something. So, shameful its embarrassing."

"Post it, come back to the fold, you're not strong enough to give up and you never really wanted to, stay here in fic purgatory with me."

The tongue poking emoji popped up.

"Yes, oh great and high ficwriter, to whom I am a mere ant, beneath her lofty notice. -salutes- I will join you once again in hell adjacent ... just ...let me grab some borax and a machete..."

...

Just as she finally got through the process of posting "The Thing You Hate" an email popped up announcing Sam had sent her another message.

Hell! How could she have forgotten about Sam? She hadn't just added Sam to her piece of crud she'd actually used her pen name and review... And Sam was innocent, really innocent she'd never written a thing in fanfic.

She could take it down, change names or a few details like she'd done with Peaches, she supposed. She could ask permission... Or she could just delete it, it wasn't really that good anyway. And if Peaches read it, it would be mortifying anyway.

At that moment, the PC locked up and wouldn't do a thing...

Sh t! What was she going to do now? It would have to stay up until techno hubby got home to do whatever magic he did to make the computer work.

Feeling like the biggest heel in the world Michele picked up her phone and opened Sam's message.

"Hi Michele

Soccer and hedgehogs, normal dull life sounds fun. The way you write it I can almost see it. I actually played soccer in school for a bit, but we always moved around lots back then, still do now. I used to hate moving all the time for Dad's work, but now look at me. I've had chances to settle down, but they've never stuck. After a while it gets into your blood.

So here I am in LA, I guess it's pretty enough, there's beaches and palm trees and all things Hollywood, but the people seem willing to sell their souls for fame, or something resembling it. Everything just seems a bit unreal and plastic. Like a thin plastic skin stretched over reality beneath.

I don't know about tales of me tormenting my big brother are going to be forth coming. Right now, he's on my case for drinking water with cucumber slices in it. My big brother seems to have a pathological thing against eating healthy, the really unfair thing is he so doesn't look like it. Still I worry he'll go dying of a heart attack on me one of these days.

We are actually catching up with a couple of colleagues for this case. Their working relationship is really amusing to watch, they are so different and yet not so different, they're like a bickering old married couple.

By the way I'm not afraid of you. I think you should be more afraid of me. You're like a little kid playing in a minefield, even if you are an adult that's married with four kids. If you weren't so far away from everything I'd worry.

My email is SWrocksaltandsilver at gmail dot com replacing the ats and dots with symbols, it will also work on Skype, but only instant messenger. So, send me that hedgehog picture if it even exists.

Sam"

Michele bit her lip feeling guilty, a little kid playing in a minefield? No... More like a nasty kid tossing hand grenades! Poor Sam didn't deserve to be the butt of a bad fanfic joke just because she'd been a little curious. Damn what if Sam saw her fic first. She'd hate her and never talk to her again. Michele glared at the dead PC feeling sick, hating it and herself for causing this trouble.

Well there was only confession left.

"Hi Sam

I'm going to confess something here and you're probably gonna hate me *sigh* you know how I said I was done with writing fanfic... I sort of slipped and wrote something. The thing is... you're sort of in it... Umm and then I posted it without thinking and now I can't delete it because the PC died... and I'm so sorry. None of that's an excuse... it's like saying "I just accidentally had sex with that person." There's a process to get there and choices along the line... Hell I'm a crap friend and I'll understand if you don't want to talk to me again *sad eyes* I'll take it down if you want me to, as soon as I get the PC working."

Michele looked at her head long rush of apologetic words, there needed to be something more.

Carefully she typed in her email address and Skype contact details. With a suggestion Sam contact her like that if she wanted to maintain contact. And a hope that Sam had a nice life out there in the real world otherwise.

With a sigh, Michele sent the message off into the void.


	9. Chapter 9 Words as pain relief

**Chapter 9**

Sam's reply came by email a few hours later.

"Michele relax its ok.

Let's just say I'm not surprised, not offended, and not worried. That day at the duck pond really did happen, didn't it? Your story lets us walk around in your head and life and for me, today that was a gift. I got to see some dark stuff today. The things people do for love or obsession, they can be awful. I should be used to it by now, but I'm not.

I don't want you to stop writing, it's proof that not everything is dark in the world. That's a gift. Write what you need to with my blessing.

Besides you owe me a photo of that hedgehog.

Sam"

Michele read through Sam's email a dozen times feeling like laughing and crying all at once.

Forgiveness and relief were heady things.

She'd always been fairly empathetic and there was a world of hurt buried in Sam's words, what was Sam looking at over there in America? She couldn't really imagine, but between the words there was a feeling of ...bad, that made Michele's heart bleed for her.

Her life had been so sheltered, the worst things that had happened to her were miscarrying a child, after 3 months of puking and her sons decent into autism. The bad stuff of the world had always just sidestepped her, it accounted for her blithe confidence... and the fact that she'd been such a pathetic baby about the whole autism thing.

Sam seemed like a good person, she wanted to hug her 'friend' on the other side of the world, get her a coffee and give her a dose of good chocolate.

None of which she could do.

She could write though, the story of Sam and Dean Winchester had been her morphine, could she do the same thing for Sam? Her phone blipped a notification, it was the bible app with today's verse,

"Gracious words are like a honeycomb, sweetness to the soul and health to the body.

 **Proverbs 16:24 ESV"**

A small laugh and a wry smile, "Enough already! I do get the point, no need to nag" she murmured. Feeling more in touch with God than she'd felt for an age.

Another bible reference flitted through her mind to do with queen Ester. 'For such a time as this...'or something. Michele was a believer in the idea that sometimes you had a job laid at your feet. And when you saw it you picked it up and did it.

"Dearest Darling Sam

Thank you so much, your forgiveness is the sweetest thing in the world! Your permission is a responsibility I won't take lightly. And your friendships treasure! Am I laying it on too thick? *grin* ... So today I shall tell you two tales about the duck pond where I spend large amounts of time with Mr 2 (please find photographic proof attached) so anyway Today we went to the duck pond and had a few experiences. Today at the duck pond we saw a man taking a small pony for a walk. From a distance, I thought it was a large dog and I was like "look that dogs nearly big enough for you to ride" to Mr 2 ... then they got closer and I realized it _was_ a pony. It's not the weirdest thing I've seen, one day we were going on a family bush walk up to a local water reservoir dam and met a family going the other way taking their two dogs and their pet goat for a walk.

Not so long ago there was a news story about the police having to taser a goat, it was wild and had been attacked by a dog and had gone nuts... and somehow ended up in a building menacing people ... so the police were called, because in NZ our police get called for insane goats, we don't have enough insane people to keep them busy... Because our normal police don't have guns (I bet that's a weird thought to an American) they ended up tasering the goat. The local radio stations had an absolute ball with it, they even faked a recording of the incident and called the police for comment. The bumblebee activist of course was horrified that anyone would be so mean to a goat. But having seen a wild adult male billy goat I'd not want to tangle with one.

The second occurrence was that Mr 2 fell in the duck pond, it was bound to happen, the kids a domino, hes the world's biggest klutz and he has no fear (maybe he gets that last bit from his mum', though in reality Sammy I have lots of fears.) We've done really well getting to over 2 without a dunking in the pond, honestly.

I must have a tiny fragment of prophecy in my blood, though. All morning I'd been thinking "that kids going to fall in" I could practically see it in my mind's eye. Then the moment I stopped watching him like a hawk... in he goes! He went right under, but I fished him out in mere moments, I even took an aftermath photo. (please find attached) I ended up stripping him off and taking him home in just a nappy. I've just finished bathing him and making him pretty and a whole lot nicer smelling, yitch duckpond water is smelly!

Anyway, I shall attach photos, me and hubby, the kids, hedgehog, duck pond the works. Consider it repayment for forgiveness and please don't feel pressured to reciprocate. In reality, I sort of like you being a mystery, that I have to work hard to work out. I imagine you as tall and steely eyed with a ponytail and a kick ass attitude like some PI on a TV show *laughter* yeah, I know, silly... But I was a short (5'3") kind of plain lab tech with freckles and glasses, and now I'm a little wifee and Mum and I think I look like those too, so you know stereotypes came from somewhere….

MC2"


	10. Chapter 10 Tazering goats

**Chapter 10**

When Michele's phone announced a message shortly after, she was expecting it to be Sam or Peaches... or Cat ... or the social worker.

Instead it was a review.

Michele raised her eyebrows in surprise, a review on "The Thing You Hate" ...?! Sam and probably Peaches had obviously read it, but for both of them that was a little different, wasn't it? She doubted either would review though.

Ohhhh, it was from the reviewer she'd always mentally called "The smartest kid in the class." Whoever they were, they'd caught on quickly to clues in TOB in a way that was rather 'Sam Winchester'.

There'd also been a few times where writing "Thing of Beauty" had been, really hard, and it was The smartest kids reviews or PMs that had been a hand in the darkness.

Whoever that reviewer was, she'd missed him or her, you weren't supposed to have favourites in parenting and Michele suspected you weren't supposed to have favourites with reviewers, but ... okay she did... after all, that's how her collection began, wasn't it?

She wondered what the faceless reviewer somewhere out there had thought about TTYH. It was drivel and so different from TOB that she hoped her favourite reviewer wasn't disappointed. There were no puzzles here for The smartest kid, to work out unless just plain life was a puzzle, of course. Michele figured she could hand out chocolate fish to anyone who called her on the blinding ridiculas amount of truth she was chucking out there, labelled as fiction, though.

...

That night, Michele had disturbing dreams about crowds and loud music. When the hubby finally shook her awake her nose was bleeding and her head pounding. Apparently, she'd been talking in her sleep.

"We're not winning, we're just losing slow"

Her husbands worried looks and the way the words made her shiver in dread made her feel like the dream hadn't just been a dream.

Covering best she could, she felt a wave of uneasiness rise inside.

Dreams weren't always simple dreams, over her youth and childhood she'd had several dreams that had turned out to be 'true' after a fashion. The dreams and a few other things accounted for her whole faith in God thing, some people wanted to believe... for her it was a trifle more... grudging. Less waffling adoration. More, ...fine, can we just get on with this?

Some people said you had to check your brain in at the door to believe in God. Unfortunately, she'd often felt it was more like having to check her brain at the door, to ignore Him.

Mostly though, a dream, whether it was an inscrutable thing made of your brain chewing over the images and thoughts of the day; or something that was more 'prophetic' in nature, mostly a dream was of no use in real life.

Michele had often resented that fact.

They never came with useful explanations and you spent years sometimes, wondering what they had really meant.

So, she had a box in her head much like the one she'd said Dean Winchester had in his, in TOB.

Hers wasn't labelled quite the same (because she was a good girl who didn't swear,) maybe something along the lines of "Things I have no control over, so I'm ignoring them."

Every few days she tried to shove her sons Autism in the box, but it didn't fit and always crawled out.

The inexplicable things like the dreams... they mostly sat quietly once they were shoved in the box.

...

The next morning Michele found herself writing Chapters 2 and 3 with the same head long rush as the previous chapter, she felt the same uncertain bemusement with what actually found its way onto the page and the screen.

Every time she posted a chapter it seemed she dug the hole deeper, it was both funny and awful in equal measure Peaches was right she'd gone to purgatory and there was no escape.

There was a dreadful part of her that actually wanted to call Peaches and Sam's bluff, if things continued one of them would surely call uncle on the whole thing and demand she delete it.

...

"Hi Michele

Yes, it was a trifle thick, but it made me smile. As did the goat Tasering. I really thought that was just one big lie, but I used my detective skills and found a news article. You really are short aren't you, are you sure you aren't a hobbit?

We are finished in LA for now, it wasn't exactly a win, but for now, the case is closed. That's as good as it can get right now I guess. I find myself waiting curiously for the next chapter of that story. And your next tale of life there in New Zealand, thanks for the photos, you and your family look happy. The hedgehog looks real and Mr 2 looks rather shocked. That's a lot of ducks. I'll leave you with your stereotypical image of me for now. I am tall, taller than my 'big' brother, actually. What can I say he's short and bossy. Maybe he'd have grown more if he ate his vegetables. Not that it's ever slowed him down with women any *sigh* he's always on my case to hook up with someone.

I appear to be picking up some of your writing habits, how disturbing. Next thing I'll be out feeding ducks and tasering goats.

Sam"

A brother that was a bit of a hound dog and didn't eat properly. That really sounded like Sam needed to expose her short bossy brother to the "fruit website."

"Hiya Sam

I have a story for you, I really do have a fanfic friend named after a fruit, and we do talk on Skype. I also have a hubby that's an incorrigible smart ass. Hubby doesn't really get the whole 'Supernatural' thing, somewhere in the back of his head I think he suspects I feel about Sam and Dean the way he thinks about Angelina Jolie, I don't by the way. *laughter.*

There's this quote in a movie called "Bigfish" that goes along the lines of "to my dad there were only ever two women, my mother and everyone else." It describes me I guess, the only guy I've ever really 'seen' like that is my annoying smart ass, cheeky wonderful husband.

But anyway he likes to be a hound dog or at least pretends to, one day he was teasing me about Peaches, gahds the "eating Peaches" jokes do my head in, as does his habit of offering to cover "my Peaches" in whipped cream and chocolate sauce, then he sits there watching me eat it with "that look" on his face (*rolls eyes* she's a girl, for sanitise sake, I know he just does it to wind me up, but it's just so mortifying.)

Anyway, somehow while he was finding new ways to mortify me with inappropriate sexual innuendo about "Peaches" he found the "fruit website" which details the sexual advantageousness of all these fruits and vegetables, suddenly hubby is buying and feeding me and himself all these new fruits and vegetables. It's equal parts funny and mortifying. I don't know if there's anything to the purported properties but I guess it keeps us healthy, and keeps him amused. I have a sense of humour so really, I don't mind.

So, I find myself thinking, a certain type of guy who doesn't eat enough fruit and vegetables could have his attitude changed by such a website don't ya think? Especially if said brother didn't know his little sister meant him to see it. I'll attach the link, shall I? *giggles* us kid sisters must stick together and look after our annoying men folk by whatever slightly underhanded means we have.

I'll also attach the next chapters of TTYH for your perusal.

Let me know if your brother has an attitude change.

*Hugs*

Ps both hubby (hubby's only a little taller than me) and I could have auditioned to be extra hobbits for LOTRs but I was locked in a high security lab that day, protecting NZs biosecurity. So, I missed my chance to be third hobbit from the right.

MC2"


	11. Chapter 11 Fruit and hidden treasures

**Chapter 11**

Dean Winchester leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed, studying his younger brother.

Sam was acting squirrelly.

Since when did research make his baby bro laugh or smile? Sam was acting practically bipolar, ever since his time as Toni Bevells unwilling guest, Sam's default setting was intense and slightly angsty.

Montauk hadn't helped things either.

Neither one of them were really sure what to do with that one.

But now, out of the blue, for whole minutes at a time, Sam would be practically happy, for no reason Dean could see.

It wasn't that Dean didn't like the lightening of his brother's angst, but... Sammy was behaving like he had a secret.

Sam didn't have to tell him every freakin' thing but Dean had learned by bitter experience that Sam keeping secrets could be a hugely bad thing.

"Anything interesting?" He growled entering the room.

Sam looked up flashing him a dimpled grin swiping his hair back "Nah, nothing, I need a break, want a beer?"

Dean raised his eyebrow "Bit early for you, isn't it?"

"Yeah, yeah, coffee then?" Sam got up and walked off.

Dean watched his brother walk away with narrowed green eyes. Something was not right with Sammy and he Dean was gonna work out what.

Looking over his shoulder, Dean ambled nonchalantly over to the laptop. Lately Sam had put a password on his laptop and usually locked it when he left it, complaining Dean kept filling it with porn.

This time Sam had left it unlocked.

"Score!" Dean muttered to himself and studied the webpage Sammy had been looking at.

Dean ran his hands back through his short hair feeling puzzled.

This definitely wasn't part of the search for Lucifers current vessel. A website about the positive qualities of fruits and vegetables for sexual prowess? Why the hell was Sammy reading up on this? Fascinated despite himself, Dean began reading. Maybe there were reasons for Sam's vegesauras tendencies his older brother had never considered.

A sound from the hallway brought Dean back to himself, quickly closing everything and covering his tracks he picked up one of the weapons from the display racks scattered about the library, pretending interest.

Sam returned with coffees and handed him one.

"We need to go on a supply run." Sam advised him looking irritated.

"Awesome, I'm going stir crazy. Need to get outta here" Dean took a few gulps of coffee.

Sam was already seated back at the laptop scanning news websites again, he just grunted eyes on the screen, taking an occasional sip of coffee, fingers flying.

"Tell ya what, I'll go take Baby for a run, you stay here and geek it up like a good Bitch."

"Whatever, Jerk, try buying something healthy for me along with your usual heart attack invites" Sam muttered with a wave.

Favouring his brother with a sly grin, Dean grabbed his jacket "Sure thing Sammy."

...

"Dear Michele

You're a genius! Today my brother went shopping and bought actual fruit and vegetables. Then he made us both fruit salad. Fruit salad! With real fruit. It was all I could do not to choke on it. Thanks though. I can't remember the last time I saw him eat fruit that wasn't part of a pie.

Sam"

...

Michele grinned, what could she say ten years of marriage and husband management had taught her a bit about manipulating men for their own benefit, it was always good to hand on the skills to another woman.

"Hiya Sam

Glad it helped, just be careful not to let on or laugh at him over it. Men can be so fragile and sensitive, they call us the weaker sex but it's just not true.

Today I shall regale you with a tale of mystery and revelation.

The mystery of the stones...

Lately, in the course of my travels with kiddies to local parks I have noticed... the stones. They hide in odd nooks and crannies and I have been noticing them for weeks. They are painted bright colours with pictures or patterns on them. A few days ago, I took Mr 2 to the park to feed the ducks at a small creek there and play at the little park on the other side of the footbridge. The first one was sitting on a stump by the creek, looking like a large yellow and black toad, odd thinks I and took a photo of it (as always find attached) Next I noticed a whole "family" sitting by a tree trunk and again snapped a photo. Then I spied the last one sitting on a post. Smiling to myself at the odd and charming finds I took a third and took Mr 2 off to play on the slide. Shortly after a family appeared and the kids scattered and began searching everywhere like kids at an Easter hunt. Shortly after our little stoney friends were found with shouts of joy and much giggling, the parents rounded up the rocks on the picnic table and took photos of them, then sent the kids off to hide them again. Approaching the parents, I queried about what the story was. Apparently, the rocks are "a thing."

People throughout New Zealand are painting them and hiding them for others to find and shifting them all around the place in parks and public spaces. Even taking them to other towns. The rocks even have a series of Facebook pages apparently, where people post photos and clues. The whole thing just tickles me a little. People hiding little treasures to make a stranger's day.

I know you sometimes see the darker stuff in the world Sam, but the lesson is that if you look, there are also hidden treasures out there. Be it a painted stone or the glint of sunshine off water. Or a brother being manipulated into eating fruit.

MC2"


	12. Chapter 12 Reading fanficion

**Chapter 12**

"Sam?"

"Yeah bro"

"If you wanted the car or anythin', time out alone..."

Sam frowned at his brother in puzzlement "Uh, I'm good Dean. We're sort of busy here."

His brother gave him a slightly sideways uncomfortable glance "It's just, if you wanted to hook up with someone ya don't have to get permission, just go. Or if you need to talk…" Dean pursed his lips like he'd tasted something sour "about any issues you're having..."

The longer Dean talked the more lost Sam felt.

"I'm good Dean..." then the penny dropped. He studied his older sibling's earnest expression and unusual discomfort trying not to laugh.

"This is about that website, isn't it? That wasn't for me, that was for you."

Dean looked shocked, his face drained of colour and two bright spots flared in his cheeks. Emotions morphed over his face in quick succession and his mouth opened and shut but no words came out.

"For me?" His brother finally rasped out.

"Umm yes." Then Sam's brain finally caught up with where his brother's mind had gone "no... not for that... I didn't mean ... aww crap man! It was just a joke dude... I wasn't implying that you had issues... it was just sisters looking out for their big brothers. Getting them to eat healthy."

Dean was still standing there looking at him, his mouth working soundlessly like a slow reader following a particularly challenging bit of text.

"Sisters? You had a sex-change I'm unaware of?"

"No, you Jerk, she just thinks I'm a girl."

"She?"

"Shit!"

"Who's 'she' and why does she think you're a girl?"

"Fuck, leave it alone Dean, it's none of your business." Sam went to leave and his brother blocked him.

"Sam! What the hell. Every time some 'she' isn't my business it kicks us in the in the ass." "We're having this out now."

Sam winced, his face screwed up looking defeated, not angry or defensive exactly. Just kicked, like a dog that had shat on the rug and been caught.

"It's not like that..." Sam slumped into a chair, hands dangling between his knees looking small.

"Tell me, how it is then..."

Sam swallowed, cringing, Labrador eyes peering out from behind a curtain of hair.

"You know fan fiction..."

"Becky?! Becky?!... Oh, crap Sammy tell me 'she's' not Becky Rosen."

"NO! What do you take me for?"

"Right now, Sammy, I ain't answerin'. Keep talking before I slap the binding cuffs on you and drag your ass down to the dungeon."

"De-an!"

"Talk Sam! I'm this close."

With a huff of exasperation Sam raked back his hair "Occasionally I..." Sam bit his lip "hmm, look at fan fiction out of umm... curiosity..."

Dean snorted in irritation, his face screwed up to rival one of Sam's best 'bitchfaces.' But waved his brother on, without one of his usual diatribes, on exactly what Dean Winchester thought of fan fiction and the many ships that sailed those murky seas.

"And I found this... story called "Thing of Beauty." Sam's fingers tapped across the keyboard bringing up the story "read it Dean."

"Sam, I really don't want to read some chicks fantasies about you."

"Just, just read it, okay!"

Sighing like a kid with a plate full of Brussel sprouts in snail sauce, who can never leave the table until the plate is empty. Dean began to read.

...

Sam watched his brother's face as he read, it didn't take more than a few lines for Deans face too lose that put-upon look and grow intense. Once he looked up to meet his brother's eyes.

But only for a moment, before being drawn back in to the words on the screen.

After a few minutes, Sam went back to his research and his brother didn't object.

Occasionally Sam could feel Deans eyes return to him in speculation, he wondered uncomfortably what his brother was reading, and what he was thinking. But did his best to ignore the occasional scrutiny. It wasn't the first time their lives had been laid bare. And Sam now was pretty much certain it wouldn't be the last.

Finally, Dean shut the laptop decisively.

"I need a drink" he muttered rubbing the back of his neck and stretching after sitting still so long.

"Dean..."

"Just... just give me a bit, Sam" Deans green eyes looked tired.

Sam watched his brother walk away from him. Wanting to say something but not sure what, he sat chewing on the inside of his lip feeling a bit like he'd felt as a kid, finding an abandoned puppy in the rain.

"Can I keep it?" Was going to get the answer "No" but he just wanted something ... that approached normal.


	13. Chapter 13 Normal

**Chapter 13**

Dean returned with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Plonking one by Sam's elbow he half-filled it, then filled his own to the rim and took a deep gulp. He glared at his brother until he took a sip.

"So, what are we looking at? Special kid or prophet?"

"I..." Sam took another mouthful of whiskey while his brother glared at him.

"You haven't asked?"

One side of Sam's mouth quirked sideways a trifle apologetically but he didn't answer. He just met his brother's eyes his jaw clenched and forehead creased.

Dean snorted infuriated and took another gulp of whiskey "Help me out here bro, I'm tryin' to understand."

His little brother slumped slightly and huffed "I found the story about a week before Lucifer-Vince surfaced in LA and sent her a message, I really meant to find out Dean, but then we started talking and..."

"So, you have a thing for her?"

"No!" Sam looked horrified "she's married, Dean!"

"And thinks you're a girl... ?"

"That too" a tentative smile faltered on the younger Winchesters lips for a moment.

"I still don't get it bro."

Sam shrugged and opened a folder of emails and pushed the laptop in front of his brother.

...

Michele was at the bench slicing fruit and vegetables when her husband walked in.

"Peaches thinks chicken nuggets constitutes a meal" she informed her husband in disgust, waving her hand irritably at the phone beside her chopping board.

"This coming from the girl that survived on soup, toast and yogurt at her age." Her husband smiled "We saved you from yourself."

"With your pathetic need for mothering, and I don't just mean the girls... Nothing like looking after someone else to make you look after yourself." Michele conceded waving a carrot menacingly.

With a grin, the man grabbed her hand trapping the carrot weapon and bit the end off.

"Oi! If his highness sees that, he won't eat anything for fear of father germ contamination" she murmured quietly looking towards her son's bedroom.

Chopping the bitten end off the carrot she handed it to him along with 4 other bits of uncontaminated raw carrot. "Go give those to your kids. Coffee?"

Looking down at the phone she read Peaches most recent comment.

"I've got another one-shot idea. The more I study the more ideas I get for stories. It's such a pain."

"Go have a piece of fruit and go to bed. Write the idea down and tell it to take a number. You can tease me with your idea tomorrow, genius child."

The poking tongue emoji appeared.

"Peaches won't go to bed" she fake whined, to the hubby when he returned.

"Send her a photo of what you've done to one of her relatives with that knife, that'll sort her out."

"It's an orange, not a peach, it is an _American_ though" Michele grinned holding up a bit of skin with a sticker on it "you know if I add some blueberries and watermelon we can really 'eat a rainbow.' Peaches thinks it's weird that I add so much fruit to the salad."

"You're such a fruit and vegetable crusader. Ohhh look you're going to feed me _celery_. Kids, early night tonight!"

A chorus of unhappy squeals came from the lounge prompting the mother of the house to glare angrily at the father.

"Dad's joking." She soothed "that blasted website makes you think everything I feed you is a come on, you know it was probably written by the vege-growers association to boost sales."

"And yet you sent it to the private investigator."

"That was to make Sam laugh. And if it got her brother to eat more fruit surely that makes everyone happy." She explained reasonably.

...

Dean was _not_ happy, Dean was far from happy. Dean could be described as thoroughly pissed.

"Sam, what the hell have you been thinking!"

"I..."

"Would you like a recap of names? Let's start with Kevin, shall we? Or maybe Charlie?"

"Dean..."

"Ok, so, what if she is a prophet, they have nice loooonnngg life expectancies when they get mixed up with us, don't they?!

She has a husband, a husband and four fucking kids! Four of them! And one of them's freakin' autistic. Sam, I just can't believe you."

"I thought she could be useful..."

"Useful! Useful?! use-ful for what? Maybe if we have to deal with a plague of hedgehogs? Or need some information on how to feed ducks? What the hell could Mrs frickin Hobbit be useful for?"

Sam glared back at his brother in silence.

"Sam" Dean exhaled deeply "Dad taught us better than this, I thought... I'd taught you better than this."

"She's on the other side of the world Dean, and it's not like that."

"Then, how is it?"

"You wouldn't understand..."

"I'm tryin to, really, I'm tryin to."

"I know we are never going to have normal, _**never!**_ " Sam spat the word angrily "but somehow knowing it's out there... hearing about it... _helps_."

The fury drained from Dean looking at his brother's scrunched face and brimming hazel eyes.

"Aww crap Sam" Dean rubbed his own eyes before gripping his brother's shoulder. "Maybe, I get it okay, but you _were_ right, she's a kid in a minefield. If any of the evil crap that follows us, finds her... She's, she's just meat. You see that don't you Sammy?"

Sam snorted and raked his fingers through his hair angrily "She was on bloody fan fiction like shark bait, bleeding in the water, before I noticed her, Dean." Grasping his glass, he downed half of it.

"Gotta hand it to Chuck, what better place to hide a prophet's writing than in with all the rest of the crap on fan fiction ... it's sort of a miracle you noticed it, really." Dean mused sipping his whiskey.


	14. Chapter 14 Visions of horror

**Chapter 14**

Authors note: this chapter contains graphic violence. I'm so, so sorry. For two days, I have fought it, but... I just can't.

I know it's unfair, I lured you in with duckponds, hedgehogs, dimpled toddlers and small black cats.

I'm sorry.

Take heart in the fact, you, at least, you can avert your eyes and skate unseeing over the bit in italics. For me it was in my head. It continues to be in my head. Nothing changes that, so we press on because there is no turning back.

...

To have no eyes to close, no face to turn away, no voice to argue and no hands to help.

To experience every moment and see everything from infinite angles.

 _To smell the blood and gore as it splatters and slowly drips down, to almost taste the smells._

 _The shit and piss and puke that a body gives up as it dies in violence._

 _To hear the impacts, the violations and inhuman cries of pain._

To have no choice and no escape from the experience, held beyond enduring.

Then to be spat out, to be left washed up, in your own bed.

Next to the tender breathing of your small child and husband as if the world was still a normal sane gentle thing.

Michele trembled, paralysed with shock, horror and grief.

Her heart lurched and stuttered in a chest that should be shredded with shrieks, but was made mute by the sheer volume of horror she had witnessed.

Silent tears leaked from eyes wide beyond seeing. Eyes that still saw the images.

 _A terrified dark-haired man dressed in black, both legs shattered, and bent unnaturally, trying to claw his way across the wooden floor, away from a looming figure in red. Blood, prayers and pleas for mercy drooling with vomit from his gasping mouth._

 _A blonde middle aged nun thrown down the stairs like a rag doll. Her skull caving from the impact, with a sound unsettlingly like a dropped pumpkin. Pale grey eyes starring in death. Wooden rosary beads broken and scattered to roll through her clotted blood and brain matter._

 _A young priest pinned against a wall by an invisible force, jaw clamped shut and eyes bulging. A broken flag pole thrust through his heaving chest, leaving him hanging like a coat on a hook. Yet somehow, he was still alive and suffering. Feet kicking, piteous whines and whimpers from a mouth filled with blood... taking an age of gasping hitching breaths to finally breath his last._

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

Some people are not made to encompass such things, to suffer and witness suffering without irreparable damage.

But, it seems, the thing about suffering is, that it's a sliding rule, what you can endure varies hugely. For each person, there is one thing they can go beyond endurance. For Dean Winchester, time and time again that has proved to be his little brother, Sam.

For Michele, the question was answered by the half heard cry of "Mum" from across the hallway.

Legs that couldn't move, took her to a bedside.

Hands that had trembled like leaves, stroked with quiet reassurance through sleep tousled hair.

And a voice shredded by horror murmured soft words of comfort.

A writer once wrote of the danger of having children, that you tear a piece of your heart out and let it walk around away from you, unprotected. It is a stunning risk, a folly of love.

But on occasions that small piece of your heart, can be the only piece of you left - And yet, somehow it can seed the reconstruction of you as a whole.

What you could never do for yourself, you can do for that other - Wrapping yourself protectively around something precious and fragile, can make you strong.

So, that night it wasn't her strength that kept Michele's heart and soul intact. It was her weakness. A son that others saw daily as a burden, flawed and broken.

...

It seemed that Sam and Dean Winchester were in an impossible situation. Sam was right. He hadn't caused the situation, he'd just stumbled on it. Dean was even willing to concede the point. What to do about it though, that didn't seem to have an easy answer.

Dean took another gulp of whiskey, thinking that his real objection was Sam getting attached to yet another thing or person he was surely going to lose.

Sam just couldn't roll with the hits anymore, he'd seen it ever since Sam had released the Darkness. The new crusade to do more good than harm, to save not just as many as possible, but everyone. It was a battle his baby brother couldn't win.

But it was too late, wasn't it? Freaking Mrs Hobbit with her menagerie of children and stories of animal adventures and mishaps - what ever happened to her, Sam was going to care.

The frickin kick it in the pants truth was, Dean could feel himself caring too. Because somewhere half a world away someone had reached out to his kid brother and in a very naive way tried to shine a light into the darkness of being a Winchester, to give him a taste of normal that he Dean had never been able to give him... except by letting him walk away to Stanford.

The problem was, normal just didn't survive Winchester gravity, it got sucked in and eaten alive.

And yet, Sam, he couldn't just leave normal alone.

All the talk of the last few hours had wound down to a stalemate, neither of them was sure how to proceed so by mutual unspoken consent they were doing nothing and trying to ignore the whole thing.

Sam was back to scanning news websites.

Dean was alternating between playing word with friends against Mom (and losing major time), attempting to help his brother with research - But mostly just irritating him with random pacing, second grade sound effects fit for a kid waiting in line at the bank, huffs, and bouncing his right leg restlessly on the ball of his foot.

"Dean, go make food or something." Sam finally flared, snapping in irritation.

"Fine, but I'm not makin ya anymore fruit salad, ya long haired emo wannabe chick."

"Just go Dean, there are too many weapons in here for me to avoid killing you much longer!"

"Like you could." His older brother snarked stalking out.

…..

"I may have a hit" Sam advised his brother when he returned with food, (which included some lonely looking fruit perched on the side.)

"Billionaire philanthropist and CEO of several major corporations Wallace Parker. He was found dead in his office late Tuesday night, his body was reportedly heavily damaged by an explosion, but the building was undamaged and one witness is reported as saying his eyes were burned out."

"Definitely sounds like our thing." Dean agreed "But first, eat your fruit Sammy, never know when an opportunity to get laid might present itself. Maybe if you get laid, you won't need to swap recipes on line with Hobbits."

Sam chucked the fruit at his brother's head, but Dean simply caught it and handed it back with a shit eating grin.


	15. Chapter 15 Ouroborus

**Chapter 15**

It was Saturday morning, Michele lay curled on her side pretending to sleep while her mind worried and tore at the dream from the previous night. What kind of freaky psychological crap was going on inside her head? A shudder ran through her body, she'd always thought she was a good person, writing Thing of Beauty had shaken her view of that a bit, sure. But last night's little horror show... that made her wonder whether she knew herself at all. Why was her subconscious slaughtering catholic nuns and priests, how sick and twisted was she? A tear tracked its way down her cheek as a wave of self-loathing lapped over her.

Had she finally lost it? Was there something seriously wrong with her brain. The migraines, the bleeding noses, writing stuff in almost a fugue state, stuff that she barely recognised when she reread it, except of course that it was her frigging life, and now these dreams.

G-d the dreams.

There had to be something wrong with her, seriously wrong. A brain tumour? Maybe a prion disease, like mad cow forming mats of infective proteins and eating away her brain and draining her sanity? Some kind of chemical poisoning or unknown disease agent from her years of government lab work?

There were so many choices. She took a shaky breath and bit her lip. She just wanted to curl in a ball push her thoughts in a box and ignore them.

But she was an adult she had responsibilities, she couldn't afford ... she couldn't afford to let her family down.

So, she'd get checked out, quietly. _It's not keeping secrets if there's nothing to tell_ she told herself. It's protecting the people you love. It could be nothing.

But what if it wasn't nothing? She'd had friends her age die of cancer. Wryly she remembered the MEM she'd seen somewhere "Parents with kids with autism be like 'I can't die, not even of old age, at 190.'"

Jingle, jingle thump. I wet nose pressed against hers and whiskers tickled her cheeks. Then, a delicate paw reached out and ever so carefully needled her shoulder with just enough claw to sting but not break skin.

If she didn't get up and feed the little beast she knew exactly what the despicable mog's next move would be, the blasted cat would wake up her quietly slumbering accomplice and then you could wave goodbye to any let's get our head straight time.

...

Sam sighed in frustration.

Another time they'd been too late to do more than look at a body in the morgue, another vessel they'd been to late to help, another corpse with burned out eyes that would leave a hole in someone's life. Another good man dead and it was his, Sam 'I know best what to do' Winchesters fault. If he'd never gone poking at the cage Lucifer would still be in there, yes maybe they might not have slowed Amara down long enough for Dean to talk her off the ledge... But who's fault was it that the Darkness had been released? His.

Sam glanced at his phone again feeling guilty, he hadn't exactly promised Dean he wouldn't write any more emails. But he knew Dean wouldn't be happy if he did.

There was a clock in his head set to New Zealand time now, a mythical place where nothing bad ever happened and mothers fed cats and made breakfast for their kids that slept every night in the same bed and never ever had to think about monsters.

He didn't want that to change.

Special child or prophet or... something else. He hadn't so much as wondered about that for over a week. Simply ignored the question, until Dean had slapped him in the face with it.

Could the woman on the other side of the world be called normal if she had written about events in Montauk as they were happening?

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose thinking about the one thing Dean didn't know about, the second story. He hadn't looked at it's progress for days. Why he hadn't told Dean about "The Thing You Hate" he didn't want to examine too carefully. But today reading it seemed a fair compromise for his uneasily balanced internal conflicts.

...

Reading right up to Chapter 5 had been amusing.

Nothing after that was.

Even the cute sweet stuff tasted sour and bitter. Because it wasn't a story it was someone's life. It was like an Ouroborus, a snake eating its tail. And Michele didn't suspect a thing, some of the reviewers who thought it was a work of fiction saw what she was too blind to see.

But she trusted him.

She lived in the real world where Supernatural was a literary device, a story.

Sam blinked and ran his hand through his hair looking down at the tail end of Chapter 10 with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

What had he expected exactly?

Pulling up an email he stared at the photos of a smiling woman and her husband, and 4 children in a swimming pool.

He stared at the photos while a lump formed in his throat and he ground his teeth in helpless anger. He saw the same face in his mind with blood running down it.

Echoing his words half a world away.

"We're not winning, we're just losing slow."

Why?

Why?

Why?

Sam took a few deep breaths trying to see past the shimmer of rage at the twisted way of things, guilt and a bit of shame that wavered in his vision.

Trying to tell himself he wasn't responsible for a woman having nosebleeds and visions on the other side of the planet.

He wanted to believe that she'd be fine.

He wanted to believe that the other side of the world was far enough away.

He wanted to believe that not knowing what was out there was protecting her, not placing her in danger.

He couldn't fix what was happening to Michele.

But he could at least track down Lucifer and put him back in the cage.

He needed to find Lucifer's next vessel.


	16. Chapter 16 Darkest before Dawn

**Chapter 16**

Michele Chadwick sat alone staring at the phone cradled in her hands. The sky held a barely there flush of orange, dawn was still an idea rather than an actuality and the hills were just dark hunched shapes outside the dark windows.

 _'It's always darkest before dawn'_ she advised herself a little tritely trying to pull her mind away from the dream that still haunted her.

This morning there were no emails or new chapters from her favourite authors to distract her.

There are days like that, days when even though your life is full of people you love and things you must do. You feel alone in your head, bogged down in darkness, you can't escape.

The advice of an old lady, from a college bible study years ago, was in those moments where you felt like curling up in self-pity, instead to reach out. "When you feel helpless or hopeless, instead help others and give them hope."

Her thoughts went where they often did lately. To America, points unknown. Sam, a friend, who was an idea without a face.

...

Dean sauntered into the library carrying two beers, sliding one across the table to his brother he sat down opposite him with an expectant look.

"So, find anything? Anyone powerful or respectable that's suddenly changed, or exploded?" His older brother's voice grated without humour.

"Well this is pretty interesting, this is the Arch Bishop of Saint Lewis, with Wallace Parker."

"So?"

"So, that was him 3 days ago, and this, is him last night. At the opening of a food kitchen. See anything missing?"

"Yeah, the big mother of a cross round his neck." And a dose of humanity, Dean thought to himself studying the difference between the first two relaxed easy smiling photos and the rigid face with unsmiling eyes in the third.

"Exactly!" Sam raised a hand and met his brother's eyes "And this morning his office cancelled all further public appearances, without comment."

"Ok, you're thinking Lucifer blasted out of Parker and into his buddy, the Arch bishop here?"

Sam tilted his head with a slight twitch of his lips "It's worth a shot."

His brother grunted in agreement and downed his beer.

...

The silence in the impala was a bleak thing, the rain ran down the windows like tears, reflecting in the occasional flares of oncoming headlights.

Dean spared a glance at his brother, Sam was hunched in on himself his eyes nailed to his phone and the photos of massacred clergy; His jaw clenched looking like he was going to hurl. But still Sam stared, as if burning the images into his brain.

"Give it a rest Sam" he griped, snatching the phone out of his brother's hands.

His brother just stared at him with wounded eyes, Dean stared back with an impassive mask not letting Sammy see how full his own mind was with the horrors they'd just witnessed. Lucifer was so far off the reservation now, he felt out of his depth.

Smashing Daddy's favourite toys was getting blatant.

Dean felt his teeth grate together. His usual smart comments wouldn't come.

Sam's phone vibrated in his hand. Sam had a message from the New Zealand Chick. Looking at his brother's face, Dean tried to calculate Sam's mental trajectory.

Crap, when had he ever been able to withhold from Sam anything that might buffer him from the horrors of their life? Swiping the photo app closed brutally he tossed his brother back his phone.

"You've got mail" he drawled "crack it open and read me what's new in hobbitsville."

Sam eyed him dubiously and a little surprised, then huffed and began reading.

"Dear Sam

Yesterday at Casa Chadwick it was hair cutting day. Now in civilised America I'm sure you attend a hair salon regularly to get your hair cut and coloured, and you probably consider it to be a treat."

Dean snorted in amusement and Sam glared at him hearing the girly hair comments left unsaid.

"Not my fault. Samantha" Dean drawled, Sam shot him a bitchface and kept reading

"But here in the home of autism, a trip to a hair salon is a major mental trauma"

Sam looked up at his brother's smirk again, unspoken memories of how much a younger Sam had hated haircuts flitted between them.

"Thankfully 4 years in university, a Bachelor of Medical Laboratory Science and 14 years of parenting have prepared me for this. That and doctor google and Mr 2s first crush Ooootuubbe. (Did you know there are videos on YouTube about how to bath hedgehogs, no lie. Since the hedgehog driftnetting episode Mr Autism has Educated me!) So, I have learnt how to cut hair, because being touched by strangers can make my 8 year old darling explode like a case of old dynamite in the middle of a fireworks display...on a trampoline. He hates haircuts (and I mean they are a white-knuckle experience for him, even when I do it) and I hate having to do it, though I'm getting better at the actual cutting side of it and he no longer looks like he's had a fight with a lawnmower when I'm finished. We soldier through it together and both breath deep sighs of relief when the traumas over.

It's one of life's cruel ironies that the kid's hair grows like radioactive weeds on steroids. It's dead straight, thick and once it gets more than a few inches long it cooks him. I maintain it's due to his brain whirring away like a hyperactive top in there. But it could be because he's pretty much in constant motion. He's the only kid I know who runs on the spot while doing stuff on the computer until he's dripping with sweat. Childhood obesity is so not an issue, he's such a picky eater too, not crap food like chicken nuggets and fries, like other kids with autism. Oh no! my kid has to live on raw vegetables and lean meat.

But not potatoes! Because potatoes in all their many varied forms are apparently the spawn of Satan himself, he can sense potato contamination from fifty thousand feet.

Add to that his horror of fried food and fat. The paediatrician gives me these looks like I starve him and I have to keep telling them he's small because his parents are short, not because we forget to feed him. It's not natural I tell you Sammy! What do you do with a kid like that?"

At that Dean snorted. "Crazy smart kid, that hates haircuts and eats like an emo hippy? tell her to send the kid to Stanford to become a lawyer."

Sam shoved his brother's shoulder and rolled his eyes.

"Today we are supposed to go visit the beach with the in-laws, blah! So, I'll write some more after (how painfully normal is it that I don't look forward with longing to a whole day with my in-laws?) and maybe attach some photos.

Hi back again, the first photo is in honour of your brother and his newfound assimilation to the dreaded fruit website. I bet you're wondering what a bird has to do with that right? *sniggers* the bird in question is a shag. Now in New Zealand 'shag' is also a word used for sex, I so hope it's the same over there! So, next time your brother is at you to hook up with someone look him straight in the face and tell him you recently" Sam started coughing and laughing, taking a few deep breaths to recover before continuing reading "you recently got shagged by a New Zealand chick, and tell him she'd be willing to 'shag' him anytime too. Now if he's anything like my big brother that will shut him up marvelously. Tehehe. Seriously though I only do bird photos. I'm simply trying to amuse and bemuse you with my awful puns. I'd never swing that way no matter how much I wuv you Sammy and the hubby is the only man I'll ever need.

Stay safe and sane out there on the other side of the world. Please find attached several other beach photos.

Hugs

MC2"

"Freakin smart ass hobbit, I oughta..."

Sam shot his brother a genuine smile "Yeah Dean like you'd spend more than 12 hours on a plane."

Dean made a rude gesture "This is me, flipping her the bird right back."

Watching his brother chuckle in amusement and look through half a dozen photos from the family's beach trip Dean figured maybe the hobbit did have her uses after all.


	17. Chapter 17 Maybe the baby thing

Chapter 17

"Sh t, f ck, Hell, crap, damn, sonofab tch!" Michele let loose a string of curses as she sat in her car in the doctor's office carpark.

Then thought, rather wryly, that hanging out with fictional Winchesters had really done a number on her prissy good girl "I'm a Christian and we don't swear" stance. Resting her forehead against the steering wheel Michele wanted to hit something.

The doctor's opinion: "You have four kids, one of them with autism, one of them with developmental delays. What you're experiencing is just normal signs of the stress you're under."

A prescription lay crumpled on the passenger seat. Antidepressants and sleeping pills. She growled in the back of her throat in irritation.

But I'm not depressed! She'd argued. I am sleeping... When she'd tried to explain... it had just come out wrong, shallow, silly.

Then, she'd burst into tears like a frigging idiot.

And that was that.

The only thing the doctor saw was a pathetic little stay at home Mummy, snapping under the burden of her substandard children.

Oh, he'd checked her out and sent her off for a battery of tests.

But his mind was made up.

She was weak, neurotic, a flapping little wounded bird.

She had to give herself points for getting out of there without punching the smug prick in the face or kneeing him somewhere down south.

She told herself what the doctor thought didn't matter.

She glared at the prescription on the passenger seat again like it was a poisonous snake.

She didn't want frickin pills, she wanted answers!

As if to drive home that point, a flare of pain spiked through Michele's skull, images and sound sliced through her brain like a laser.

...

A man and woman lay in a dishevelled bed relaxed and at ease. The woman looked at the man adoring

"...Maybe the wedding thing.

Maybe the baby thing.

I just, I just know you'd make an amazing father." The woman declared wistfully and snuggled against the man's chest. The man wrapped his arm round the woman drawing her close and smiled smugly and somewhat thoughtfully.

...It seemed such an innocent scene but it sent an unexplainable flare of alarm and terror through her, like the sound of fingernails scraping down a black board and an air raid siren combined.

...

The warm, wet, worm of blood oozing from her nose, across her top lip and pattering onto her knee brought Michele back to the world around her.

Hunting blindly in the glovebox for baby wipes Michele tilted her head back against the seat to stop the bleeding. She found herself thinking if today's blood tests or tomorrow's scan didn't show up anything, where exactly did that leave her?

"Possibly stuffed" she muttered starting the car to drive home, to four kids who thought she was shopping for new shoes.

Thank Goodness for teenagers who were old enough to baby sit, self-absorbed enough that they never questioned, and wanted nothing more than to sit on the couch all day surfing the web on their iPads.

...

Cas looked up and sighed wearily.

"Did the bunkers warding fail?" he grated, looking harassed as Dean walked into the room.

"I just powered it down, Crowley called, said he had some big news about Lucifer. Whatever the hell that means."

"Wait, wait, wait, wait a second. So now Crowley, can what? Drop in whenever he feels like it? I prefer keeping Crowley at a distance. Long distance." Sam grumbled.

"Not very charitable Moose" Crowley's voice growled from behind Sam, making him exhale and roll his eyes running a harassed hand across his face.

"... Particularly since, once again, I'm saving both your asses." Crowley continued, unabated by his less than enthusiastic greeting "So as you know, I'm persona non grata in my own Palace."

"Palace?!" Both Winchesters chorused in disbelief and distain.

"However," Crowley drove the conversation ruthlessly forward ignoring the lack of enthusiasm from his listeners "there are those I still control, operatives..."

"Crowley, can we just get the damn news without the drama?!" Sam cut in.

"Can I get you without the flannel?" Crowley snarked "No! Still, I endure..."

"What?" Sam snapped as Crowley laid hands on his precious laptop.

"I did a little digging, acting on a tip. I think I know the identity of Lucifer's newest vessel"

"Ah for god's sakes" muttered Dean.

"Gentlemen, I give you, one Jefferson Roonie. President of these United States."

There was a silence in the room, both brother's swallowed and green and hazel eyes met in weighted silence that spoke volumes of dread.

...

"Hey Peaches what's happening in America today?" Michele questioned sipping her coffee and downing yet more ibuprofen.

"Nothing earth shattering, astronomy study mostly. Hey what's a prize all stars get?"

"Umm, is this like a riddle?"

"Yip"

"Hmm I dunno."

"A constellation prize!"

"Oh hahaha, it's so bad it's actually quite good."

"I know right"

The grinning emoji popped up.

"So, what's happening in Supernatural fanfic land? What's ya word count?"

"2.3k, Sam and Dean are both having a bad day."

"Another 1.7k-ish at least before I get my next fix then? Ever think of tossing them a puppy and a bag of MMs occasionally kiddo?"

"Werewolf or Cujo?"

"Labrador with a big pink bow round its neck that makes you go awwwww."

"No dogs in the car, it's a rule"

Michele smiled despite herself, Peaches was just great value. "You're my favouritist imaginary friend in the whole world." She typed impulsively still smiling.

"Awww, bet you say that to all your captive ficwriters"

"Nah you're not really captive, maybe you're more like a tamagotchi except you don't die if I forget to feed you..."

"Feeding me reviews makes me happy!"

"Be a good ficwriter and finish your chapter then, then you'll have lots of tasty reviews from all us adoring fans."

Again, with the tongue poking emoji.

"Oh hell!"

"What?"

"'Khalessi mother of Tacos' is reading TTYH -hyperventilates- "

"One of your captives?"

"No, no, meep!

She's one of the GOOD writers, -looks wide eyed- I fan worship her, and gush at her like a tween at a Bieber concert (cos she's soo wonderful) ... like you... but now you're off the pedestal and I'm not so in totally intimidated by you -flutters eyelashes.- Cos it's hard to be intimidated by someone you simultaneously want to send to bed."

"Yeah, yeah"

"If you don't get enough sleep you won't be able to learn properly, and and what if it's that _one_ lesson that teaches you how _**NOT**_ to make an evil AI, and you fall asleep...and then you accidentally build a fruity version of SkyNet that thinks it's ok to torture everyone called Sam or Dean... and and then it might hurt my private investigator girl ... and and ... then I'd be really really _ **sad**_. So, so go get some sleep or... I'll be ... ...sad!"

The laughing emoji popped up. "I'm going... soon."

"G'Night Peachy girl."


	18. Chapter 18 Coffee and normal

**Chapter 18**

Castiel had grown to like coffee. The preparation, the warmth, even what for him could be described as the taste.

He also liked that Crowley was gone. Being alone with the two Winchesters was a balm after so long in the king of Hells company.

Castiel looked down at the cups of coffee he held in each hand with a feeling of satisfaction.

Then, his vessels hands began shaking uncontrollably as a feeling rippled through his being, a surge of unimaginable power that blurred his perception of heaven and earth like the rush of a tidal wave.

The cups fell from his hands, shattering on the floor, spraying coffee everywhere.

Then, the screaming began, buffeting his senses and making him cry out and stumble, hands to his head in agony.

Distantly he sensed Dean and Sam rush towards him.

"Cas, Cas, Hey!" Dean laid steadying hands on him, gazing at him in alarm and concern.

"Something's happened, something..." he explained "Angel radio. There's so many voices..." he rasped trying to find the meaning through the cacophony.

"What are they saying."

"There's been a massive surge in celestial energy" Castiel looked up in horrified understanding. "A Nephilim has come into being. It's the offspring of an angel and a human."

"And that's big news?" Dean queried eyeing his friend.

"Yes! The power to produce This is immense, it's much, much greater than a typical angel."

Sam's face dropped "Lucifer."

"Lucifer?" Dean looked over his shoulder at his brother " ... I didn't even know he was dating." His smart mouth in gear before he could really take it in.

"I must, I must go and find out what I can from my brethren" Cas's voice was a gravelly rasp as he turned and left.

"Yeah, ok buddy. Then Indianapolis." Dean answered distractedly hardly seeming to notice Cas was gone already.

Bending down Sam began to clean up the bits of shattered crockery, feeling numb. Anytime Lucifer came up Sam's head filled with screaming and images.

He pretended everything was ok, but it wasn't.

How could it be? Lucifer had hurt him in every way that was imaginable and it seemed there was no where or how he could escape that.

But he held it together and pretended.

For Dean. For himself ...because there was nothing else to do. Otherwise Lucifer won. So, he held himself together with chewing gum, sticky tape and strength of will alone.

Dean bent down beside him, towel in hand, mopping up spilt coffee. "You good?" He asked. It was like a secret code between them, between the words was a message that said I know your hurting, I'm here.

Sam swallowed "Yeah." Swallowing a whole encyclopaedia of words inside, he left it at that.

"Ya hear from the Lord of The Rings, Austin Powers combo today?" Dean queried.

Sam blinked, not following at all for a moment.

"You know bro, The Hobbit who Shagged You.." Dean raised an eyebrow.

Sam found a weak smile for his brother "That was awful dude. Nah I think I owe her one..."

"Go send one then."

Sam looked at his brother incredulously "but..."

"Can't make it worse than it already is, tell her we're off to Indianapolis on a case involving potatoes."

"Hu?"

"Her kid thinks they're the spawn of Satan right!?"

Sam shoved his brother and rolled his eyes.

...

"So, everything was normal?" Michele asked sitting perched uncomfortably on the chair opposite the doctor.

"Yes, the blood results and brain scans came back totally normal. As I advised you previously, it's just stress. Having 4 children could cause a strain on any normal woman Mrs Chadwick." The man's voice held a placating dismissive tone that set her teeth on edge.

Michele wanted to ask again exactly how many other mothers of four he treated who were suffering from visions, migraines and unexplained nasal bleeding. She wondered snidely why she hadn't seen any journal articles or health warnings stating that ownership of more than three children could have adverse health effects.

But she guessed if the blood work and brain scan didn't show up anything, there really wasn't much point on belabouring things further.

Instead she pursed her lips then favoured him a sugar sweet smile "It never fails to amaze me how you can remember the exact number of children I have, even when you can't remember the symptoms that brought me here, your people skills are definitely something of a wonder doctor Blake."

The doctor was smiling, as if what she'd said was complementary when she shut the door, rather firmly behind her.

So now what? Whatever was happening, she doubted it had anything to do with stress or the number of kids she had.

Dead priest dreams and visions aside (and yes that felt like a big thing to put aside) she was the least stressed she'd been all year, with all four kids home on summer holidays she didn't have the constant uphill battle with the medical and school system.

Horrible symptoms aside (oh for cripes sake it was only headaches, nose bleeds and a few bad dreams, maybe the doctor was right, thinking she was a drama queen) she'd almost say she was content with life lately. She even had a hobby, if fanfic and collecting people could be called a hobby.

If the brain scans and bloods were clear whatever it was probably wouldn't kill her... unless she blacked out and swerved into oncoming traffic.

Was she absolved of responsibility now? Was it reasonable to just ignore it and hope it went away.

...

"Hi Michele

I must tell you the fruit website prank blew up in my face.

I think you'd have gotten a good laugh out of it.

My brother thought it was research I was doing for my own benefit. Then when I told him it was meant for him, he thought I was implying that there was something wrong with uh ...him... You should have seen his face. Owch!

As a result, my brother now knows who you are. And that we met via Supernatural fan fiction.

Resultantly, your kind offer of a New Zealand sea bird was received with a certain amount of ill humour (in fact he flipped you the bird right back, by which I mean he made a rude hand gesture.) And he now refers to you as "The Lord of The Rings Austin Powers combo... The hobbit who shagged me."

However, today he asked me whether you'd written and when I said you hadn't because it was my turn, he sent me off to write to you. So, I think maybe, he's more amused than anything.

I ended up reading him your last email. So, I guess you now have two readers here in America (I hope you don't mind.)

Our next job is in Indianapolis and involves potatoes, in a sort of roundabout way. Possibly, we could do with your sons supposed super powers for sensing them from afar.

But since I doubt you'll UPS him to us, and I'm not skilled in handling dynamite on a trampoline full of fireworks (great imagery by the way) we must make do as we always do, with our awesome investigative powers and a few useful contacts. I have got to say I love fireworks, they always bring up memories of good times and delinquency led by my brother, when were much younger, and not particularly well supervised, as kids. In some States, you can't even buy sparklers anymore because of terrible kids like us and the inevitable chaos caused round 4th of July.

Do you have holidays where fireworks are involved over there? Or is it under there? Since I believe New Zealand and Australia are referred to as down under?

As always hoping you are safe and well.

Sam."

...

"Hi Sam, sometimes Sammy

You juvenile delinquent pyromaniac you! *grins*

I'm married to an adult one if you must know, each year on Guy Fawkes hubby indulges in his pyro fetish and the neighbours cringe in terror, this year he accidentally shot one of the fireworks under his work vehicle, and there were explosions and sparks shooting out from under it for about 3 minutes. Apparently, that doesn't cause a car to explode after all, score one for reality over the movies. Let's just say wifee wasn't impressed with the hubby.

They banned sky rockets here a while back and only allow their sale of fireworks for 4 days a year to people over 18 and rumble about banning them each year. But so far no ones brave enough to take away our god given right to make things go whiz bang.

I think that ever since I started talking to Americans via fanfic I've been trying to work out the New Zealand psyche and Guy Fawkes sums us up quite well.

What exactly do we celebrate on November 5th I ask myself. I've come to the conclusion we actually celebrate that a guy had the balls to try and stand up to the government of the time, we do sort of spare a thought for the fact he failed and suffered a gruesome death for his troubles. But that's ok. We get that the underdog that stands up, will probably get kicked. But we salute a bloke for trying. And we relish the fact our celebration is actually the opposite of what the authorities intended.

I read once that people in New Zealand mistrust and malign politicians more than a lot of places round the world and as a result our politicians are actually some of the most honest *shrug* I still don't trust em personally. We are a weird mix of cynicism, trust and trying to do the right thing. So, we are nuclear free and send soldiers into Iraq, to help. But... but only to defuse mines, or train medics, or do training.

There was an add on TV that played here a while back and it's the idea that at the beginning of creation God is handing out stuff to countries. A representative of each country is sitting with a push buzzer in front of them and the first to push the buzzer gets it. Other countries get gold and diamonds... and our bloke gets us a lolly called "pineapple lumps" (which are yummy incidentally.) And the bloke is really happy and then God yells out "Well done New Zealand." (He never congratulated the winners of gold and diamonds) ... but us winning lollies, He's proud of. (Because even though we get what everyone thinks of as the booby prize, we (us and God) know we're the favourite.)

It's just so totally NZ! We're the goofy good natured Labradors of the world always wanting to help, and pretty darned happy with what we've got. We have a very kiwi saying "She'll be right mate."

I know things aren't always ok, but I do sorta want to believe they will be in the end.

MC2"


	19. Chapter 19 Assume-make a ass of me & you

**Chapter 19**

Crowley returned with a screaming woman and dumped her in a chair.

It took some time for her to calm down enough to listen.

Of course, what they had to say wasn't exactly useful for calming down an overwrought woman with Lucifer's love child growing inside her, after she'd been kidnapped in the blink of an eye by a demon.

"No, no, you're making it up. It's impossible." She stammered taking another mouthful of her drink, the glass rattling against her teeth.

"Well, to be fair, so is teleporting. But. Tada!" Dean announced with a slightly goofy grin. Sam shot him a bitch-face.

"Who are you people?"

Rowena stepped forward with a smile. "Well dear... I'm a witch" she smiled laying manicured hands on her chest. "He's an angel" a wave at Castiel, and a grave nod from Cas.

"And I'm the King of Hell" Crowley broke in with a wave.

"Oh god!" The woman gasped.

"No, actually. He left." Cas contributed gravely like a solemn child, completely misunderstanding the woman's horror.

"Ok guys! Not helping!" Sam burst in wondering if he was the only person in the room not intent on pushing Kelly over the edge and turning her into a gibbering wreck.

A beat of silence.

"No, you can't, he's the President." Kelly argued.

"He was, but now... tell me he hasn't been acting different" Sam argued looking earnest.

"...Just under a lot of stress... he..."

"Wrong! He's the Devil" Crowley broke in "Horns, pitchfork, the whole nine" he rumbled, while Cas nodded solemnly.

"Crowley! Still not helping!" Sam burst out in frustration.

Crowley turned and walked away, sulking.

"Listen, we know what we're talking about, we've been on Lucifer's trail a long time..."

"And we know you're pregnant, with his child." Rowena broke in almost kindly.

"That's, that's, you're lying..."

Cas finally broke ranks "The _thing_ inside you, its unholy" he pulled the ubiquitous Gideon bible from a draw. "It's an abomination" he continued.

"That's... N..." Kelly looked at the bible Cas held uncertainty.

"Place your hand here."

Kelly looked up into the angel's eyes for a moment, before doing as he asked.

A look of horror swept her pretty face as the bible began to smoke and then caught on fire.

Burning in a perfect imprintation of her hand.

The proof even made Sam's eyes widen in horror.

The evidence hit Kelly like a blow, her mouth open in a gasp of horror, lost for words. She looked up into Castiel's eyes, their faces both lit by flames.

Dean, ever practical, brought over the rubbish bin and a jug of water, dousing the flaming book.

"No, no, no." Kelly almost whimpered, shaking her head in denial.

"Does he even know you're knocked up?" Deans question was gruff.

"Yes, he said he was thrilled... he said it was the only time he'd created any thing" Kelly swallowed miserably.

The Winchester brothers shared a weighted glance.

"Kelly" Sam spoke softly, feeling terrible as he looked down at the poor woman "we need your help." He knew he was using what Dean called puppy dog eyes and hated it. For a moment, his mind went to another woman half a world away, he also felt he was manipulating.

Feeling like crap, he laid out the plan for Kelly. Using every trick in his book to get her with the program, while the others in the room simply watched him.

When he was finished, he left the sobbing woman to Rowena, who shot him a complex look, which almost resembled a combination of admiration and pity.

It didn't help.

Dean met his eyes from across the room and took a step towards him, but Sam shook his head slightly.

"I need some air" he managed, walking out. Leaving his brother watching the closed door with concern.

...

Sam leaned against the tan and red wall outside the Plains Motel unit. His eyes took in the garish orange door and bright yellow metal chairs outside each unit while he sucked in deep lungfuls of air.

Trying to find something to ground himself with and drown out the guilt that he knew was senseless, but for some reason, still gnawed at him.

He hadn't done this... But he guessed without him, none of this would have happened.

Always. His mistakes were the blocks at the base of the tower, holding up all the other mess.

He just wanted to be done!

To stop being an instrument for causing good people pain, or trying to clean up messes.

Raking a wearily hand through his hair and pinching the bridge of his nose he pulled out his phone to check his emails.

Looking down at the email from New Zealand he huffed out a heavy sigh.

Fuck! More lies. Thumping his phone against his side in self-disgust he sighed again, straightening his shoulders and began typing.

...

"Dear Michele

I've got something to tell you, I've been letting you believe something that isn't true. When it started it just seemed easier to let you believe it. Then, well it got awkward and to be honest I didn't want the way you wrote to change. *Sigh* I'm not a girl Michele. I'm guessing you're pissed at me right about now. All I can say is I'm sorry. I really hope it doesn't change anything.

Please.

Your friend

Sam"

Tapping the send button before he could reconsider Sam took another breath. Suddenly he was sure he'd made a huge mistake.

But it was too late. And right now, they had a job to do.

As if summoned, Deans head popped out from behind the garish orange door with number 5 on, his face lined with stress till his eyes landed on his younger brother. When they did, it was just a flex of his shoulders, but his whole body seemed to relax.

Despite everything Dean still thought of him as a kid that needed keeping an eye on.

Sam's eyes flicked down to his phone, maybe he did need keeping an eye on.

"Just about go time." Dean informed him, his eyebrow cocked questioningly.

With a nod, Sam followed his brother back into the room.

...

Michele was labelling stationary, next week school started back. Darn where had the summer holidays gone?

Ten million felt-tip pens, coloured pencils, books and various other learning supplies surrounded her on the bed.

A two-foot-high menace trolled the floor by the bedside, like a shark, just waiting for stationary to slide into reach of chubby hands; then he could grab it and run away giggling to be chased round the house.

It had already happened a few times and to be honest it broke up the monotony and gave her cramped hand a rest. How could anyone resist that cheeky dimpled grin.

Pretending nonchalance, she nudged the already labelled ruler closer to the edge of the bed and within reach. Hazel eyes with flashes of what was almost orange, lit with delight and chubby hands grabbed the prize.

And then he was in giggling flight, grasping the ruler to his small chest. Three laps round the house and mother and son returned to the bedroom. Tickling and raspberries commenced, along with ruler retrieval, until the pink cheeked toddler slid off the bed to escape. Signalling the return to the salt-mines. Blah.

With a put-upon sigh, Michele went back to the mindless slog of stationary labelling. It was the purgatory of parenthood she thought grimly. And she hadn't even reached the epic battle of covering school books with Duracell yet. But that was a job that could wait until her two-year-old 'helper' was safely out of the way in bed.

The phone buzzed on the bedside cabinet, Michele labelled two more pens, to prove she wasn't really addicted, honestly.

Then grabbed the phone.

A happy smile lit her face at seeing the email was from Sammy.

….

The smile slid off her face.

Sam wasn't a girl?

Ohhhhh... her cheeks reddened in embarrassed horror. Rubbing her hand over her mouth, feeling a little sick, Michele let her mind wander back over every email she'd written.

Oh! Oh… Gahds, she was beyond humiliated. F ck! Dropping the phone on the bed like it was a poisonous snake she stared unseeing out the window.

Ohhh... the frigging fruit website... a whimper of purest horror found its way from her throat.

The bloody shag...No no no!

Innocent hugs and stupid comments took on a whole new meaning.

Agh!... Ohh she wanted to just _DIE._

She'd assumed, and yes Sam had said her... no his, brother called him Samantha but... Oh crap! They said, that when you assumed you made an ass out of you and me. Well, she was definitely a giant ass.

Glaring at nothing she thought viciously that so was Bloody Sam!

She betted he'd been having a great laugh at her from over there in America. Stupid little kiwi, ha ha very funny.

If he was here now she'd slug him one.

That's it Sam! no more emails for you, creepy bloody American. Michele flopped over onto the bed burying her face into the pillow wanting to cry.


	20. Chapter 20 Mr President

**Chapter 20**

It was a fairly simple plan, lure President-Lucifer to the motel using Kelly as bait, paint a blood sigil to make sure Lucifer couldn't hop out, then use the British men of letters hyperbolic pulse generator to pop Lucifer out of President Roonie. Rowena would then shove him back in the cage using the prepared spell.

And it had worked, even the bit they were shaky on, whether

Princeps inferni meaning Prince of hell would exorcise both Crowley and Lucifer. Crowley had of course pointed out with typical venom that he was the bloody King of Hell. Which led, in the planning phase to Sam feeling it was necessary to point out that calling yourself something, just to pretend you out rank your Boss, didn't mean you did. Strangely it had been Cas and Rowena in tandem that had soothed the ruffled feathers there.

If asked beforehand, Dean would have said the day Cas and Rowena could work together to keep Crowey happy was the day hell froze over.

Dean hadn't liked the fact that the sigil was in Sam's blood, he hadn't liked that Sam would be holding the Men of Letters fricking golden egg or saying the spell either.

But he got it, Sam needed this.

All his life he'd been encouraging Sammy to stand up to bullies. Yeah usually he'd be there ready, to rip out their lungs before they could touch Sam and this time he wasn't sure he could have done anything.

He couldn't deny that his hands had itched for an angel blade when Lucifer choked Kelly and when he'd looked at Sam with that predator's look

"Ah Sam... we've done this dance so many times." The evil sonofabitch had dismissed Sam like he was nothing.

But Sam wasn't nothing, score one for Sammy and the Men of Letters magical golden egg, because it was working.

Filling the room with its howling radiance, exploding the light bulbs and shoving Sam against the wall, the magical golden egg was definitely causing Lucifer all kinds of hurt.

"Rowena now!" He bit out and Rowena began the spell to shove Lucifer's arse back in the cage where the bastard belonged.

The force of that howling radiance increased, caving the mirror on the wall.

"This isn't over Sam" Lucifer snarled, the threat fingernails down Deans nerves.

But he'd had never been prouder of his brothers response.

"Go to Hell." He raised that golden egg and didn't even flinch.

...

Sam's golden egg and Rowena spell ripped Lucifer's last hold out of the president, the blazing light that was the last arch angel funnelled into the floor-vent and down to Hell.

The president dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

There was a moment of silence where the only sound was Kelly's sobbing breaths of distress.

A few shared looks of "is it really over" around the room in the suddenly dim quiet.

Cas approached the president, crouching down, he lay a hand on the president's forehead.

"He's alive, he won't remember a thing."

As if released, Kelly rushed to the man who was again purely Jefferson Roonie President of the United States.

"Jeff, my god. Jeff, my god." She repeated over and over in her distress clinging to his shirt with white knuckled hands.

"Get her out of here. Go. Kelly you've gotta go. Go" Sam distangled the woman gently and pushed her to Cas along with the men of letters egg.

Cas led Kelly away.

Closing the doors behind the woman and angel, Dean leaned against them for a moment with one hand. Before looking down at his brother crouched beside the president.

"We got 'im" Dean grated. "We got Lucifer" a look of dawning relief and satisfaction lit his green eyes.

Sam took a few panting breaths still taking it in, a smile flickered on his face and he looked down measuring the breaths of the man they'd saved. Sam nodded once to himself. We did it, we did it right! Sam exalted to himself, finally allowing the burst of joy and satisfaction fill him to overflowing. Maybe they were winning after all.

...

"Mr President." Sam murmured shaking the man's knee finding the whole thing oddly surreal.

"Ok. Good night. Take it easy tiger." Dean patted Roonies chest less impressed with the man's day job.

Thuds on the door and calls of "Mr President" were followed rapidly by two suited men with guns, before the brothers could react.

"On your feet, hands on your heads." The command was barked with guns aimed threateningly.

"Woh, woh." Dean raised his hands his voice pitched low and placating.

"Hey... listen, we were just trying to help." Sam explained raising his hands.

"Shut up." The man snarled raising his gun.

"You're under arrest, for the attempted assassination of The President of The United States."

Both brothers winced.

...

Michele had been in a bad mood all evening, she picked at her food and pushed it away, at some point she'd apologise and explain to her family, but right now she really didn't feel like explaining how she was nine shades of naive idiot to the hubby, Sam's betrayal was still stinging.

She followed her 8-year-old to his room for Storytime feeling exhausted and deflated.

Doling out melatonin, vitamin supplements and cat treats to 8-year-old and cat respectively Michele picked up tonight's story book with a sigh. Tonight, she really didn't feel like reading about the adventures of Septimius Heap, Extra-Ordinary Wizarding apprentice even though it was a good story.

"Mum why are you sad?"

Michele bit her lip and considered her child's green eyes knowing she'd never be able to lie to that face.

"One of Mummies friends from fanfic lied to her hon and I guess I feel a little stupid and a lot sad..."

"You mean like when James lied to me about his dad letting me have a 3D printer?"

Michele blinked in surprise, ahh yes, the 3D printer incident.

"Do you think your friend lied to you because they wanted you to like them, too?" Her son asked.

Michele found her lips forming a very childish pout then twist into an ironic smile. Damn it, this kid! He threw her own arguments back in her face with all the skill of an expert marksman and all the innocence of a lamb.

She reached out and drew the solemn eyed boy into a hug, resting her chin on top of his hair and breathing in a deeply.

"You are the smartest kid in the world, you know that?"

Her son pulled back and looked at her puzzled "It's just what you told me."

"Yeap and I'm the smartest Mummy in the world ... on Mondays, Thursdays and alternating public holidays. Now what was Septimius up to last?"

"He and Jenna were running away from the wizard tower through the ice tunnels."

"Yes, they were" Michele smiled pushing thoughts of Sam away and cracking open the book to continue reading.

...

The paradoxical ignominy of it was mind blowing, they were all alone and you couldn't deny how it looked.

Saying "No, hold on, we just got the devil out of the president you should be thanking us," wasn't really an option.

The men's faces said it all they were lower than low. Dangerous nut jobs. Not to be listened to or trusted. Men who had come this close to killing the president on their watch and consequently ending their secret service careers for good.

If these angry men with guns and the weight of the nation's security could get a few digs in on the way through they would, they were searched with none to gentle hands and everything was taken.

Thankfully the impala wasn't parked outside the motel Dean thought with relief. Cas would get his Baby home. Sam got the weirdest look when they took his phone, like he'd just remembered something awful. What could be more awful than what was happening now, Dean didn't know.

But they'd figure it out, they always did. Cas or Crowley would save them any time now. That was how it worked.

They were marched out to the vehicle and chained, sharing glances but no words, an unspoken agreement.

The ride was a long and uncomfortable one. The question of how Cas would know where they were or what had happened, raised its ugly head ... the thought that maybe they were on their own was beginning to soak through.


	21. Chapter 21 Please

**Chapter 21**

Michele studied the document labelled Chapter 11 with a jaundiced eye. It had Winchesters, honest to goodness Winchesters, and technically she supposed it wasn't a bad chapter.

She was sure the 30-odd people who were reading "The Thing You Hate" would appreciate seeing a Winchester, after wading through the 10 previous chapters of drivel. Hats off to anyone that had that much staying power, in her humble opinion.

She had also turned Sam into a guy.

A cynical smile twisted her lips, after all if Sam was going to laugh at her for being a naive idiot the other 29 readers may as well do the same.

Hell, she may as well laugh also, it was that or cry.

It was the bit where she'd turned Sam into Sam Winchester that she found a little ... disturbing. Biting her lip, she scanned through the chapter again wondering exactly what that meant her subconscious said about her. Was it a quiet "screw you Sam I don't need you," or was it just a trifle pathetic.

It all fitted together with a certain kind of seamless beauty. The actual emails settled into the whole like pieces in a puzzle ... it all made her feel sort of sad and helpless, like she had no control.

It had been a week and a half since Sam's "oh by the way I'm not a girl" email and Michele could admit she was still sulking and refusing to email Sam out of spite. And a fair amount of injured pride and hurt.

She wouldn't have even written the chapter before her, but her head hurt so bad and she _knew_ , in a very out of the corner of her eye, unacknowledged way that if she wrote the next chapter of fricking drivel her head would quit pounding.

She didn't like it, though she wouldn't admit to the coincidence and it made no sense.

Yet ... the whole thing made her feel pushed around and trapped. Like an animal being trained to obey with a shock collar.

Like she needed another reason to feel bitchy, confused, and a trifle miserable.

For what seemed like the millionth time, she opened Sam's last email, her eyes always found that one word.

Please.

It floated there all alone, tugging at her resolve.

For a week and a half her son's words had bounced around her head with that one word.

Please.

For a week and a half, her stupid bible app had pounded her with bible verses about forgiveness.

For a week and a half, she'd dreamt every night of Winchesters trapped in concrete cells. (She didn't need much help interpreting that dream.)

For a week and a half, she'd immersed herself in real life and stayed away from fanfic.

For a week and a half ... she'd missed Sam.

But Sam wasn't who she thought she was. Sam was a guy.

...

Michele's husband walked in and placed a coffee on the computer desk, beside her elbow.

"You're writing again?" He asked with a teasing smile.

"Yeah."

"So, when are you going to forgive your pet transvestite private investigator?"

"I'm not." She snarked with a snort. "She-he lied to me, I don't talk to liars."

Her husband chuckled in the back of his throat and leant down to kiss the side of her neck, making her shiver "you will, you can't help yourself." He whispered in her ear.

"I can." She pouted shrugging him off. "Besides husbands aren't supposed to want their wives talking to other strange men on line."

"I think if I can trust you to go to _**the library**_ without succumbing to the temptation of strange men, I'm fairly safe trusting you to send emails to an American transvestite."

Michele felt her cheeks colour at the mention of the library incident. The worst bit was she'd laughed in the poor guys face when he'd asked her out.

It had just never occurred to her she didn't have a sign painted across her forehead reading "not on the market, wife and mother of four." The poor guy! It had been _mortifying_ , and then she'd had to ring hubby and tell him all about it.

Now he ribbed her about it, _every time_ she visited the library, especially since the few times she'd seen the guy since, he'd fled in the opposite direction.

"I don't like you right now" she sniffed.

"You do love me, though." His grin was smug.

Ignoring him she posted Chapter 11.

"Poor Sammy, you're a mean spiteful woman, you're punishing him for telling the truth. Poor, poor Sam." Her husband teased.

"If you love him so much you write to him then."

"Dear Sam, my wife is mean and nasty, but she still wuvs you and she'll forgive you, eventually. Because she's a bleeding heart for waifs, strays and American transvestites."

...

It took another week and two more chapters for her to crumble.

"Hi Sam,

So, your chromosomes don't match...

I think I'm over the shock now. I'm mortified of course and you're a prick. Hubby says that I can't be mad at you for telling the truth. I guess I just sort of assumed and you let me *glare* and made an ass of you and me. Don't do it again ok?! And you owe me a photograph containing yourself and proof the photos real, a bottle of milk and a local American paper I think.

MC2"

By that point she just wanted Sam to say something like "I wish I _was_ Sam Winchester." Or maybe. "Your story's just really weird now."

Sam didn't reply.

A week went by and Sam didn't reply.

School was back, the appointments that came with having an autistic kid ramped up. Life continued, Michele collected a few more ficwriters and wrote more drivel.

And yet... Every time she checked her emails she had that little hope, and every time it died.

She tried not to admit it, but she worried about Sam.

Maybe it was the awful dreams of being locked in a tiny concrete cell, trapped and alone tormented by thoughts that weren't hers. Regrets she couldn't comprehended. Sometimes she'd see a tally on the wall and she knew, it was the time since Sam emailed.

Sometimes she woke crying, wishing, it would all just _**stop**_.

Then she would wake and life continued.

She couldn't let it go, so she sent him emails occasionally with stories she told her other ficwriters about life, the silly stuff, light in the darkness.

It was just cut and paste. An email once a week or so.

It was probably pathetic, not probably, it was...

But it was that one little word floating there all alone that wouldn't let her give up.

…Please…


	22. Chapter 22 Blood on the mouse

**Chapter 22**

"No!" Michele choked starring horrified at the words on the screen "No, no, no." The blood dripped from her nose "I won't" she moaned wiping the blood away with the back of her hand ignoring the splatters down the front of her shirt. She wanted to say "you can't make me," she wanted to be defiant.

But ... after two days of blinding pain and repeated visions of the scenes in the document, the document she'd deleted 3 times already... only to write it over again, word for word.

Well, the painful truth was, whatever this thing driving her was.

It could make her.

Two days and now she couldn't even remember why she'd objected, this moment was her last struggle. Her last bit of defiance.

Did she care that much about the people reading her drivel? She knew most of them had read worse, it wasn't like she'd be corrupting the innocent.

No, it was more that, once people read it.

They'd be dead.

The nun, the priests.

Somehow, she'd told herself, if she just didn't send the words out into cyberspace three people would stay alive, suspended.

So, she'd refused, for two days she'd refused.

But it made no sense.

They-were-fictional-characters-for-fckssake.

Michele stared down at her hands and watched the scarlet gore patter almost soundlessly into her upturned palms.

Then, it was almost as if someone had grasped her chin raising it with a gentle hand, her eyes focused on the photo of her family hanging on wall.

Michele gave in, she clicked that last box to send the words into space.

The pain drained away and the blood stopped dripping from her nose.

Michele sat for a long time, staring helplessly at the smears of her blood, covering the mouse.


	23. Chapter 23 Talkin in my sleep

**Chapter 23**

Sam Winchester woke gasping from a shallow sleep.

Vomited out of dreams of being trapped in the cage with Lucifer, to the reality of being trapped in a cell.

Alone.

His lungs just couldn't seem to draw oxygen from the air.

But no one cared, no one was coming. He was alone.

Sam had always thought he was a man who found silence soothing until now. But he'd never known silence, absence like this.

It ate at him.

This wasn't the silence of sitting on the impala's hood drinking beer with Dean as the stars wheeled overhead. This wasn't the silence of paging through dusty books in forgotten library basements. This wasn't the silence of waiting for something evil moving through the darkness.

Those were living silences.

The silence in the cell, was dead.

The silence wanted to eat him, turn every thought in his head to ash and blow it away.

He was losing it. Every good thing slipping away, becoming faded and dusty.

He wanted to hold on to the memory of Deans laugh, the weight of his brother's hand on his shoulder, the way his eyes would light up.

In the cage, it was the one thing Lucifer couldn't take.

But here, here those things were turning into shadows in his mind. They were losing all weight and colour, beneath the weight of the silence.

And the Bad, the mistakes, the regrets, the worries, they reflected back on him. Circling his head ever tighter. Stuffing themselves into his mind's eye with muffling silent whispers.

Sam thought of his brother trapped in a cell so close, but an eternity away, and tried to push the darkness from his mind.

Dean was living with this too, Dean who couldn't stay still, who needed loud music and the open road, Dean who gloried in action. If this was killing him what was it doing to his big brother? Was Dean even still alive? Would they even tell him Dean was gone?

Maybe they weren't torturing Sam, but maybe somewhere they were hurting his brother.

Sam fisted his hands in his greasy hair tugging till the pain was louder than the silence.

Songs were gone, poetry has fled, all the beauty of words. But somehow one thing remained.

There was an irony in it, for the man who never wanted to be a hunter. When all else left him in the emptiness.

The Latin words of an exorcism remained.

And so, in a desperation to hold back the silence, Sam began, with a voice rusty and frayed with disuse to recite the words of an exorcism.

...

"You're speaking in tongues in your sleep now." Michele's husband informed her holding up her phone "I thought you might like to hear it."

Michele eyed her husband warily "Umm really? Why didn't you wake me, sorry."

"It was like you were practicing a speech or something I'm sure you said it four times, which is why I had time to record it"

Frowning, less in annoyance than puzzlement the man played the sound file.

 _"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te...cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare...Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis...Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine...quem inferi tremunt...Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos."_

Michele pursed her lips, "Weird... It's Latin, I think."

"Latin? More than ten years of marriage and now I find out you speak Latin."

"No, well no, not really, I know a bit from bible study stuff and the scientific taxonomy thing. I guess it just all got mixed up in my brain with a whole lot of gibberish. It can't really be Latin."

Her husband studied her face thoughtfully, then shook his head and gave her a goofy smile "Marrying a smart woman... I never thought she'd wake me up at night by spouting Latin. I don't mind you waking me up in the night, I just like it when you use your mouth ... less verbally." His eyes took on a wolfish cast, and Michele knew his upstairs brain wasn't driving anymore.

Snorting in irritation she pushed him out of the bedroom door, before he finished the thought.

"Give me my phone and go take a shower, you. A cold shower! We haven't got time."

Hubby dispatched, Michele sat down on the side of the bed staring at her phone. Finally, she allowed her unease to surface. Talking in her sleep was hardly new, she'd always done it, according to her Mum.

Spouting Latin.

That was new.

So, if it wasn't gibberish, if it actually made sense? That _could_ be described as speaking in tongues.

She was a Christian, she believed in speaking in tongues... umm theoretically. She was a scientist too though and scientists believed in evidence.

Michele looked down at her phone weighing it in her palm trying to decide which way to jump.

Was it evidence?

She could ignore the whole thing, shove it in the box with all the other unnerving bits of her current life.

Or, she could find out if what she was spouting in her sleep, was actual Latin.

Because if she was speaking Latin in her sleep that meant something, didn't it? ... And not that she was stressed and owned four kids.

Speaking of which.

Two slightly sheepish daughters appeared in the doorway carrying bits of paper and anxious looks.

"Ummm, we forgot to give you the notice..."

"And the money has to be in today..."

Michele sighed deeply "How much is it? Give the forms here so I can fill them in and go get my wallet."

...

The Slovenian Cat was a student of Latin and Greek.

Michele tapped her fingers restlessly against the sides of her phone. Cat loved language but worried she'd bitten off more than she could handle with her current topic of study. Cat wasn't religious, Michele found the idea of wanting to study Latin without using it to study biblical text, oddly astounding, like stumbling on a blind person learning to sculpt. Her frame of reference was just … so different.

And yet it inspired awe.

Michele didn't know much, but she figured a Slovenian that could write and read English as well as Cat did (and keep up with Michele's rather hopscotch interpretation of the English language) probably was pretty darned amazing with languages.

"It's all Greek to me." She'd tell Cat.

They shared a love of photography, cats and fanfic. Progressing from reviews, to PMs, to emails, then messenger ... So now, Michele had a Latin scholar at her fingertips, all she had to do was ask.

...

"Good evening Cat, how was your day? I hope it was kind."

"Hey. Good morning M

Yes, it was.. mostly. I had fun taking photos outside, we had a lovely sunny day. How was yesterday?"

"Busy, mostly kid stuff. My life's mostly kid stuff.

Umm Cat if I send you a sound file do you think you could tell me if it's Latin (or anything else you recognise) and if it makes any sense or what it says? Please please please?"

"Yes, send it to me."

The minutes ticked by and Michele fidgeted wondering what was Cat was thinking.

"Yes, it's Latin. Is this for your story?"

"It means something?"

"It's an exorcism, isn't it?"

Michele blinked and bit her lip wondering what Cat would say if she wrote 'no that's me talking in my sleep.'

"The translation: "We exorcise you, every impure spirit, every satanic power, every incursion of the infernal adversary, every legion, every congregation and diabolical sect. Therefore, diabolical legions, we adjure you ... Cease to deceive human creatures, and to give to them the poison of eternal damnation; ... Be gone, Satan, inventor and master of all deceit, enemy of man's salvation ... Be humble under the mighty hand of God; tremble and flee when we invoke the Holy and Terrible Name at which those down below tremble ... ... from the snares of the devil, deliver us, O Lord . That Thy Church may serve Thee in peace and liberty to serve, we ask Thee, hear us."

"Cat you're a wonderful friend, you know that?"

"No problem. As exorcisms go, that's a pretty good one."

"Are there bad ones?"

"Yes, you can't just put Latin together any old way. Some of it in the fanfics is laughable."

"Well I only want people laughing at my bad puns, not my bad Latin, hence expert help from the other side of the planet. Thanks a million!  
Oh, Gahds look at the time!"

"Yup, I need to go get sleep  
Oops!"

"Oops indeed!  
G'Night Sweet pea  
You're soo my favouritist Slovenian wonder scholar *Hugs*"

"It's okay. Night night. I hope your Tuesday will be a good one  
Lots of huuugs"

A picture of a cat asleep on a pillow snoring popped up, making Michele smile.

…

Once Cat was gone Michele scrolled back up and stared at the translation. An exorcism? Oh God! Quite literally.

But after a while of musing on it Michele shrugged, she'd probably read it in one of the Supernatural books or a fanfic.

The brain was a weird thing. It puked up bizarre things, when left alone long enough to percolate.

Score one for hanging out with fictional Winchesters, apparently, it taught you Latin exorcisms.

Michele wondered briefly what would happen to her 8 year olds principal, if she played the awful woman the sound file. A slightly evil grin lit her eyes.

Maybe she should ask the hubby to make it into her ringtone.

That would be funny.


	24. Chapter 24 Bound in blood

**Chapter 24**

He sat, staring at his hands, his head bowed so his greasy brown hair concealed his face. But Michele didn't need to see his face, for two months every night, she found herself here. Watching Sam Winchester suffer and slowly disintegrate.

A silent witness who understood nothing.

This was a lucid dream, she could wonder why.  
Why was it Sam, not Dean in the cell.  
Deans protective instincts resonated more with her own.  
If she was standing here watching Dean trapped, it would make more sense.

The symbolism escaped her, unless Sam stood for her son and the cell stood for his autism. But why now? Now that she was finding some acceptance. Now that life with the big A had found an equilibrium.

She knew she felt trapped by everything that was happening in her daylight hours.

But why was her mind dragging Winchesters into it at all? Why not just throw her in the cell alone and lock the door? Or have some nameless dread chase her through endless corridors. Or that old time favourite, make her search fruitlessly for her children. Maybe, watch them be swept away, out to sea. She knew all the usual suspects of her unquiet mind well.

Tormenting Sam to get to her, seemed needlessly cruel, even for her overworked guilt complex.

Eventually in her nightly vigil, she had stopped trying to fathom why this dream haunted her.

All she really wanted to do was free him. Or barring that simply lay her hand on Sam's head and tell him he wasn't alone, that he could get through it, whatever it was. Because that's what the Winchester brothers story had done for her.

But she couldn't.

She was a silent watcher, nothing more.

She could feel his despair, his loneliness, the leaching away of all hope, the way his soul curled deeper into a huddle with every tally mark gouged into the monochrome wall, in the monochrome cell.

She could witness the pain, but she couldn't touch it or him. She had no voice and no substance.

...

When the woman appeared in the cell Michele didn't know who was more surprised Sam Winchester or her. Sam's look of flinching surprise morphed into horror.

"De-an" he rasped.

"Howdy Sam." The dark woman's singsong tone was mocking as she did a full 360 of the cell.

For just a moment, the woman faced Michele and her eyes widened in surprise, like she could see her.

For an eternal instant those depthless eyes that held the end of all things studied Michele, eyebrow raised and lips twisted in mocking.

When she turned back to Sam her face showed nothing.

"Nice place you've got here, Sam, though I don't suppose you get many visitors"

"Billie, why are you here?" Sam bit out the words.

"I've been having the most riveting conversation with your brother, Sam." The cat smile Billie favoured Sam with was malicious.

Her words hit Sam like a fist in the stomach, his face crumpled.

"D-Deans dead?" It was a broken whisper.

The woman studied Sam's pain in silence for a long time.

"Oh, big brother Deans not dead ... yet."

Sam's head snapped up, eyes wide, hope and fear bleeding from his hazel and blue eyes. Sam pushed off the bed and headed for the door.

Michele knew Sam's knuckles were bruised and skinned over and over already, from hours hammering against that intransigent slab of metal, he'd yelled till his voice had given out and still no one had come.

That route wouldn't get him any closer to his brother.

As if Sam had come to that realisation also, he turned back to Billie, his jaw clenched, eyes narrow and fists balled.

The deadly violence that poured off the large man in the enclosed space made Michele flinch, but the woman, Billie, merely smiled the same cocky amused smile.

"What're going to do, Sam."

"Billie, why are you here?"

"While you've been" the woman waved her hand "Deans been falling to pieces too, Sam. But he's also been planning and scheming and dreaming up deals."

"no ..."

"Dean's so predictable isn't he, Sam? different song same dance." The dark eyes gleamed with malicious enjoyment.

"He's done it more than you know, Sam. When you got shot hunting that werewolf, he overdosed on pills just to beg me to bring you back.

The irony, you weren't even dead. It was all very Romeo and Juliet."

Sam's nostrils flared and his chin jerked up.

"This time, Dean wants me to kill you both."

Sam's jaw clenched and he stared at Billie his breathing harsh, waiting in silence for her to continue. Billie tilted her head acknowledging her opponent.

"Then he wants me to bring you both back, once you're out of these cells, so you can escape."

Sam's mouth twitched with a half-smile, it would work. But there would be a catch.

"What's the catch Billie?"

Billie steeple her fingers in front of her lips eyes twinkling.

"At midnight once you're out and have had your happy reunion. Dean dies for good and goes to the big empty."

"No!"

"I can see why you like it here Sam, it's so homey. But big brother Dean, he's not doing so well."

"No, Take me instead."

Billie favoured him with a predatory smile.

"Sam, I don't care which Winchester I take ...

You two can decide, all brotherly.

But I'm not leaving you any wiggle room. We make a pact, bound in blood. Break that and there's consequences, on a cosmic scale."

With a clenched jaw and a furrowed brow Sam nodded once.

"I'll just go tell Dean the good news, shall I?

I'm sure he'll be overwhelmed with joy that little brother wants to flip a coin, or will it be paper, scissors, rock do you think?" Billies voice was a purr of satisfaction.

Then, she was gone.

Sam began pacing like a caged tiger again, measuring the cramped confines of his cell floor with stilted paces. His jaw clenching and unclenching. Face alternating between hope and despair.


	25. Chapter 25 Paper scissors rock

**Chapter 25**

The sounds and smells of the woods after so long in captivity were almost enough to make Sam feel drunk.

Running at that easy ground eating lope, half a step behind and to the left of his brother through the dark, it was entirely muscle memory. A feeling of bone deep rightness. A repeat of a thousand other nights.

But this wasn't a thousand other nights.

This was the last night.

At midnight one of them would die for good and their soul would go to the empty.

So many times, Dean had sacrificed himself for Sam, this once Sam was determined to repay the favour.

Once would have to pay for everything.

"Dean!" He's panting more than he usually would, talking and running wasn't going to work. Talking at all was going to be an uphill battle with Dean, who he knows, is trying to avoid this discussion indefinitely. "Dean stop." Sam leans against a tree putting effort into looking done-in.

"Sam?" His brother stops and walks back, his face a pale oval in the darkness "Sam?" There's that hesitant quality in Deans voice that he gets when he's worried about his little brother but also thinks he might get ambushed.

Sam stifles a smile.

"Sam, you hurt?"

"Nah, just two months in a box. The adrenalin crash after the soldiers, maybe." Sam slides down the trunk to sit, long limbs bent in an ungainly sprawl.

"Sasquatch jack in a box. Terror of soldiers" Dean rumbles in an attempt at humour settling beside him.

"Dean, we gotta talk about this."

"Nothin' to discuss Sammy, my deal, I pay the dues."

Sam grunted "It was _Our_ deal, Dean." He held up the palm he'd raked the bolt across to prove his point. "It doesn't have to be you Dean. I..." he finds himself faltering "I _don't want_ it to be you. Not, not again."

"Sammy" god, Deans voice contains a world of love and tiredness in one word, it makes a lump form in his throat "Sam, I can't do it without you... "

"And you think _I_ can?" The angry words ripped themselves out.

"Sam." His brother's voice held no anger in return, face turned away in the darkness Dean reached out blindly, resting his hand on the back of his brothers neck he squeezed gently once before letting his arm fall away bonelessly "you gotta think about it logically" Deans voice was a gravel soaked whisper, full of tears he'd never admit to. "It's about which one of us can keep fighting bro, which one the world needs. You're the best of us Sammy, always were."

 **"No!"** Angry tears spill and he reaches out grabbing his brother arm.

"Yeah you are, you're smarter, you've got more heart 'n' you're a survivor Sammy. Me, not so much so. I can't... I don' ..." a broken sigh "You're the best part of me Sammy."

"no..."

"Yeah, Buddy it's gotta be me, use that big brain, run the numbers."

"NO! You're wrong, you're the better hunter, people like you and need you more! Can't you see that?! _Why_ can't you see that? Damn it Dean! I make crap decisions, especially when you leave me. Demon blood, Ruby... Releasing the darkness..."

"Sam, you didn't mean..."

"I never do, that's my point!"

"We gotta move Sam."

"No, not till this is decided."

"Seems, neither one of us is gonna give." Frustration was beginning to creep into Deans voice "I'm fresh outta coins to toss."

"Paper scissors rock, best of three."

Dean snorted at the suggestion, then he smiled, teeth white in the darkness. "No take backs Sammy, no pitching a bitch-fit. The person that wins, goes?" Dean stood and pulled Sam to his feet.

Sam eyed his brother in the darkness barely daring to believe his brother would agree.

"No take backs, Dean. The person who wins, goes." He knew Dean so well, he always threw scissors, it was almost too easy.

...

 **"No!"**

Dean chuckled "Actually, _yes_ , Sammy."

"But..."

"No bitch-fits, Bitch, I won. Deals a deal."

"Dean..." then a sickening thought occurred "You hustled me, fuck!"

"A person only gets hustled if they're cocky about a sure thing, Sammy."

"You fucking Jerk. You've been hustling me for years."

Deans rumble of laughter lit the darkness "Bitch, only when it mattered. This matters. You'll get over it 'n' find some way to haul my ass outta the empty." With that Dean turned and began loping into the darkness.

Sam followed as he'd done all his life.

Constrained from arguing, every step and heartbeat carrying him towards an end he couldn't see a way past.


	26. Chapter 26 Long drive home

**Chapter 26**

The 7-hour drive between the Rocky Mountain National Park and the Bunker was not a comfortable one for Dean. Every time he closed his eyes it was as if the events of their midnight appointment with Billie replayed themselves behind his closed eyelids.

He'd been ready to die, had steeled himself to it.

Had almost welcomed it truth be told, except of course for Sam, standing beside him radiating pain on a subsonic level.

When Billie had asked "So who's it going to be?" In her snarky tone, he'd hesitated for just a beat.

Not because he'd changed his mind and not because he'd hoped Sam would offer. But for the old reason, that he didn't want to disappoint Sammy. Didn't want to leave him alone.

And in that moment Mom had stepped in and answered in his place, one word that made the bottom fall out of the universe

"Me."

After that everything seemed to stutter to white noise, drowned out by the horror that his mother was going to sacrifice herself for him, just as Dad had done.

Why was everyone willing to die for him, but not willing to live for him?

He'd been pinned helpless watching, like a four-year-old crying for his Mummy.

As Mom raised the gun to her head and cocked it

"I love you" she'd come back, just to leave with a bullet to the head, why did people say they loved you in those moments? When they were leaving.

Then Cas had shoved his angel blade through Billie.

"Cas, what have you done?" He'd found himself demanding

 _Cas Cas rhymes with ass_ , his mind sung over and over childishly while his stomach plunged with dread.

"What had to be done. You know this world, this sad, doomed little world, it needs you. It needs every last Winchester it can get, and I will not let you die. I won't let _any_ of you die. And I won't let you sacrifice yourselves.

You mean too much to me, to everything.

Yeah, you made a deal.

You made a stupid deal, and I broke it."

"You're welcome." His last sentence angry and defiant. Staring back over Billies body.

On one level, he could be thankful for Cas's actions. He'd stopped Mom dying, from taking his death.

But his diatribe was just another messy goodbye, another person stepping in and taking Deans death and twisting it to make it their own.

Consequences on a cosmic scale didn't just go away because you ventilated the deal broker.

No, Consequences, they crept up on you and took a chunk out of your ass, when the dust had settled and you thought everything was fine.

There was a quiet sly voice at the back of his mind, that asked if it wouldn't have been better if Mary had just gotten to pull the trigger.

Dean turned his face against the cold glass of the window, wishing for his Baby's soothing rumble to drown out his thoughts.

...

The adrenaline crash hit, Sam fell asleep after a surprisingly short time, once they'd all climbed back into Moms car.

Dean was alive, Mom was alive and they were out of the god-awful cells stuffed with nothingness.

Unfortunately, his mind didn't uptake that information with a huge level of trust. His sleeping mind shunted him straight back into a cell with Lucifer, held down and tormented. That mocking, chiding voice telling him nothing outside that place was real, that there was no escape.

He woke constrained and yelling, him mind refusing to let go or come back. Then he registered Deans hand on one shoulder, Cas's on the other and his mother's blue eyes staring at him wide and frightened, like he might attack her.

Deans rumbling grumble of words articulated nothing, but they were the familiarity of forever. Anchoring him and calling him back.

Mary's wary look however, made him realise how much they had insulated her from their fractured psyches. She didn't know... and Sam didn't want her to know.

A moment of guilt stabbed through, he also never wanted her to know his first thought when she offered herself in Deans place. It hadn't been panic or horror like Deans. It had been pure joy. The thought he'd swap her a million times over for Dean and consider himself lucky. He was the worst son imaginable, he had to do better.

...

Michele woke naturally feeling rested and somewhat puzzled, for the first time in weeks she hadn't dreamt, not of Sam Winchester in a cell, not of anything.

Deeply surprised she grabbed her phone to check the time and discovered it was nearly 7am.

Wow! when had that last happened, everyone was up but her. The faint sounds of squabbling daughters and the microwave beeping found their way through the closed lounge door, a mostly cold cup of coffee and two slices of petrified toast spoke of how long everyone else in Casa Chadwick had been on the move.

Checking her phone, Michele felt real pleasure in seeing an email from The Smartest Kid in The Room, who it turned out wasn't a kid at all, but another mother of twins.

Sipping cold coffee Michele read of four-wheel drive adventures in the great man playground of mud (her hubby's idea of a romantic weekend away) with an amused smile. Her friend's description of her hubby being freakin adorable made her chuckle.

Yeap, men thought they were all big rough and tough, but they were all just little boys really.

And that thought brought her back to American Sam, thinking of him made her sad, she mused winsomely that really, she ought to give up on that one, there was such a thing as admitting defeat with grace. That point was probably a month back, she thought with a large dose of self-mocking and a sigh.

When you have four kids and a husband who is your least grownup child, time dwelling angstily on electronic imaginary friends is usually short, today's special feature was her husband doing the "the post shower, I'm so sexy you want to ravish me strut" which truth be told, actually always just made her want to roll her eyes, laugh and throw a pillow at him.

Men! There was no understanding their behaviour but they certainly made life more interesting, of that Michele was sure.

…

There was silence in the bunker, even with the door to his room open Sam couldn't settle or sleep, despite a belly full of real food, a shower so hot his skin was still slightly pink and more than a few stiff drinks. Grabbing the new phone Cas had given him Sam decided to take a walk outside and set it up properly. Looking in Deans open bedroom door Sam found it empty. No, it was going to be a long time before either of them settled peacefully.

…..

Sam looked up at his brother's form silhouetted against the curve of earth above the bunker, smiling to himself he picked his way up the slope and settled a meter away, back to a tree. Neither of them spoke they just sat in silence listening to each other breath and the world continue turning. It was enough. Sam slid out the new phone and continued making it his. Dean took out a bottle of whiskey from his inside jacket pocket and continued to make that his in slow mouthfuls.

When he'd finished setting up his email Sam was a little floored by surprise.

"Hu!?"

Dean glanced at him questioningly. Holding up the phone Sam showed his brother his inbox. Sam blinked at his brother and felt a slow smile ease onto his face.

"Hobbits man, they don't give up, do they." Dean rumbled with a raised eyebrow.

"I, I guess not."


	27. Chapter 27 Samwise frickin Gamgee

**Chapter 27**

They'd sat for hours on the slope of the hill swapping the bottle of whiskey back and forth, while Sam read out the emails from the other side of the planet. It was mildly comforting that real life had continued, made up of moments of mundane humour that had flowed onwards while they'd been locked away.

Each email like a stepping stone across the drowning lake of the past two months.

Each moment of simply being together, looking out and down at the open space stretched below them, the feel of the breeze, smells of dirt and the vegetation crushed beneath their boots. Everything helped reaffirm they were going to be okay, even if they didn't entirely feel it right then.

Dean had mostly just listened in silence drinking steadily with the odd chuckle thrown in, but now Sam had finished reading.

"She was mad at you, you drop off the radar for two months an' she still kept writin' to you." Dean summarised.

"Uh, yeah."

"Your hobbit's S'mwise frickin' Gamgee. Loyal, persistent an' sorta dim" his voice held mocking with a pinch of respect. He frowned tipping the empty bottle "Ya drunk all m' whiskey Sammy."

"I'm pretty sure you drunk most of it, Dean." Sam clambered to his feet offering his brother a hand up.

" 'm fine Sam." His brother muttered knocking his hand aside, achieving vertical unaided.

Sam followed his brother down the slope, ready to reach out and grab him, in case whiskey, uneven terrain and gravity dared to conspire and prove Deans high functioning alcoholism skills were impaired by being dry for two months.

It wasn't until they were going down the bunkers stairs that Dean stumbled.

Sam grabbed him and shoved him firmly under an arm. For a second Dean went still, then glanced up and sighed, his mouth worked as he swallowed down some emotion.

" 'm tired Sam."

"Okay, bed then."

His brothers face formed the 'I don't want to' pout. Sam waited, expecting Dean to shove him away. But Dean didn't

"Baby..." he requested petulantly.

Sam took a breath to argue, then figured screw it.

"Yeah ok." Stopping for a pillow a blanket and a bottle of water Sam walked his brother to his beloved impala, all the while thinking how crazy it was that he was putting his brother to bed in a car when his bed was closer.

Dean settled into the back seat, Sam turned to leave.

"S'mmy?" His brother's green eyes stared up at him owlishly.

Sliding into the front seat with a sigh he rubbed his eyes "Yeah?"

Deans eyes started to droop closed and he rolled over pressing his face to the leather like a child.

With a huff of mixed exasperation and amusement Sam hauled his leaden limbs out of the car leaving his brother in his happy place, as he turned to go Dean muttered something. Sam could have sworn it sounded almost like

"S'mmy don' ever say ya love me." But he must have misheard, even for drunk Dean, that was a weird sentence.

Making his way back to his own room Sam pulled out his phone again and opened the fanfiction website.

He contemplated Michele's story without opening it for a long time. It had grown to 24 chapters. The drive to read the words on the screen balancing his foreboding over what he might read.

...

Sam lay on his bed, face illuminated by his phone screen trying to process everything he'd read, but it was like his brain stalled every time he tried.

His feelings were so mixed they just seemed to cancelled themselves out.

Sam chewed on his bottom lip feeling more than a little uncomfortable, she repeatedly called her writing drivel but somehow it felt more invasive than anything Chuck had ever written about them, sharper more cutting. A violation. It raised his hackles, part of him wanted to hit out.

But how could he begin to feel resentment or anger towards someone that did the same thing to herself. That really didn't have a choice. Who quite literally bled for dead strangers? He'd lied to her, while she offered the him the truth. She hadn't given up on him, had kept giving when he gave her nothing in return.

She had...missed him.

Her life had been normal until it touched his, he gave her pain, fear and nightmares, but she wanted ... to be kind, to him.

To give strangers light in the darkness.

She wasn't just a kid in a minefield, she was a kid in a mine field handing out fricking girl scout cookies, and he'd been eating it up.

Opening her photo Sam stared at the woman's face wondering exactly what the fuck he was going to do.

At some point he fell asleep still trying to answer that question.

….

Michele sat curled on the couch in the darkness reading through The Thing You Hate chapter by chapter feeling very much like she was reading something someone else had written.

She was tired, oh so tired, but she couldn't rest.

Tonight, there was no drive to write either, which was why she found herself, for the first time really reading the thing that was slowly eating away at her life.

She'd always thought of herself as a person that found meaning in the shape of life. But in this there didn't seem to be a meaning or a reason.

She thought back to one of the first emails Sam had sent her, remembering his words about her not escaping as easily as she'd hoped.

There was a small bitterness there now.

She wondered uncomfortably whether it would be possible to kill her AU self with a brain aneurism or something, whether that would free her from the story and the compulsion to write. Or whether writing her fictional self's death might lead to her real self's death. A bitter laugh burst from her, fracturing the middle of the night stillness.

And to think, that Sam had once called her normal.


	28. Chapter 28 What your supposed 2 do

**Chapter 28**

Sam woke instantly to the feeling of being watched, his hand found the gun he'd placed under his pillow the night before.

Mary hovered awkwardly in the doorway, Sam relaxed and let his hand slide away from the gun.

"I brought you some coffee" she offered, she took a step closer but seemed hesitant about fully entering the room.

Sam sat up, knocking his phone to the floor and reached out a hand. Taking that as permission to enter, his mother came closer and handed him the cup then perched on the chair next to the desk holding the other cup in front of her with two hands.

Sam offered her a winning smile, feeling a little like his mother was a frightened animal that needed soothing and took a sip of his coffee, he was surprised to find that the coffee wasn't black but the way he preferred it. The surprise must have shown on his face.

"Thanks Mom"

"Castiel informed me, that is how you prefer your coffee. And this" she lifted the other cup "is how Dean prefers his... but he's not in his room." There was that hesitancy in her voice again. Questions not quite asked.

"Dean slept in the car last night, the impala. She... uh, it, is..." he faltered "she was the closest thing to a home we - Dean had for most of his life." Sam tried to explain while her face took on a tense cast "that place...it's just going to take us a bit to reacclimatise, ya know Mom."

She shot him a quelling smile and nodded, something in it held echoes of Dean, making him smile in return.

"So, do I...?"

"Nah, he'll come out when he's ready, he had a lot to drink last night, being dry for two months, I think he'll be a bigger jerk than usual if anyone pokes at him before he's ready."

"Okay." She took a sip of the coffee she had made for Dean "I have a few errands to run, so I'll leave you to it." She stood to leave.

"Mom?"

Mary Winchester looked back at her youngest son.

"Thanks. Dean, he was going too... and I'm not sure I could have lived with him doing that... then you stepped in and ... And I know Cas' stopped it, thank god he did... I'm overwhelmed with gratefulness that he did, believe me. But ... well you were willing to do that, for, for us" his voice went husky "...and, just thanks" Sam took a deep breath feeling his eyes burn with emotion.

Mary looked at him with an oddly sad smile.

"It's what mothers are supposed to do for their children." She told him quietly, a slight frown pinching her brow. Then she turned and left without another word.

...

"Hi Peachy girl how was your day?"

"Mm nothin' special, how about you?"

"Mr 8 and autistic had a dentist appointment today. So you know ... awful traumatic. A dentist visit is a combination of everything he hates, strangers touching him, bright light, horrible noises, tastes that make him gag and there's no such thing as a painless dentist visit, is there. Gahds it's always so painful for me knowing that and being strong, acting like what he's going through is OK when the poor kids in stark terror, it's the bravest thing I ever have to do. It rips my heart out in ways nothing else does.

Those moments where you know the person you love most is going through hell. And you know, it's their love and trust of you that's what's holding them there.

He's so unbelievably brave, he lies there shaking and whimpering quietly, white as a sheet silent tears leaking from his amazing eyes holding my hand and **trusting me**. It's all I can do not to drop to my knees and wail "I'm not worthy.

So, you know ... a usual day of parenting."

"Speaking of suffering, I have something to cheer you up, I'm almost done with DWY chapter 5"

"Really? Yay

….Dewey decimal…

That comments not as random as it sounds. DWY sounds out as Dewy, so you know, my brain chases things weird places."

"So, I need to write a HWY and a LWY as well I guess"

"Hu?"

"Sound it out, you'll get it"

"Ohhh Hewy Dewy and Lewy, Daffys nephews."

"Yip, I didn't think this chapter was going to have much in it, but I've made it to 1.5k words."

"It's a good size."

"It was only going to be like 3 mini chapters."

"I speak for all your many readers when I say, I like it when you get carried away"

"Haha. How's your story going?"

"It appears to be letting me have a break, and I'm enjoying the peace"

"Stories can be pushy can't they?"

"Ahhh sweetpea you have no idea...

Sooo... how far off posting are you?"

"Uh, I have like 1 more line to write, then I'll go back and reread"

"-Bounces on toes like a little kid- hehe I'll let ya concentrate, then shall I? All the sooner to get what I want"

...

Sam followed his brother into the map room carrying his cup of coffee.

Dean had walked out of the kitchen the moment Cas had walked in. Again.

It was exhausting and Sam was beginning to feel like he needed to step in. Mom was gone, which left him with one thundercloud and one, whatever the heck Cas was.

His brother was starring moodily at the board with all Cas's Kelly Kline research pinned to it.

"Yeah, I was looking at that earlier." Sam sighed "Cas has been busy, huh?"

"Yeah, busy not finding Kelly Kline or her Rosemary's baby." Sam sat down and stared at his brother wondering what he was supposed to do. Dean was being uncharacteristically mulish with Cas "I mean, how's a chick like this just drop off the map?" Dean grumbled.

"Well, I think that's what he's trying to figure out." Sam set down his coffee and leaned back hands on his knees, trying to think of a way to begin the Cas talk "Hey, you, uh, you hear from Mom yet?"

"Yeah, she called last night, said she's got a line on a shapeshifter in Atlanta." Dean paced over and leaned against the map-table "I said we could come help, and she said, "Don't bother"" he raised his hands in exasperation "Apparently, she's "got it"" Dean made air quotes sounding slightly aggrieved about not being invited to the party and took a mouthful of coffee to take away the taste.

Sam chuckled "Then, she's probably got it."

"Ye-ah." Snorted with a humourless laugh.

"Mom's good."

"I just think she jumped back into this a little quick, don't you?"

"I don't think we have the kind of mom who's gonna stay home and make us chicken soup for dinner, you know?" Sam tilted his head with a small huff of amusement "You talk to Cas yet?"

"No." Dean scoffed

"So, what, you're just gonna keep walking past each other in the kitchen, not saying a word?"

"Maybe." Dean took a gulp of coffee and looked away from his brother, lips pursed.

"Look, yes, Cas killed Billie, but he saved us. He saved Mom. How long are you gonna stay pissed?"

I'm not pissed that he cares about us, you know. I'm - I'm grateful." Dean finally looked his brother in the eye, Sam looked back with narrowed eyes waiting for him to continue "But Billie said there would be "cosmic consequences" if that deal got broken. You have any idea what that means?"

"No."

"Neither do I, but I'm pretty sure it ain't jellybeans and cheese-strings."

"My point is, Cas thought he was doing the right thing." Sam looked up at his sibling, brow furrowed with earnest emotion.

"I _was_ doing the right thing." Cas's gravelly voice broke into the conversation as he walked down the stairs into the room.

"You sure about that?" Dean grated face turned away not looking at his friend.

"Yes."

"Yeah? Well, I'm not so sure. And when the other shoe drops -"

"I'll deal with it." Cas broke in, Dean made unconvinced sound.

"I have to go."

"Got a lead on Kelly?" Sam queried.

"No. This is personal."

"Meaning what?" Dean challenged.

"Another angel. An old friend. He called out for help."

"Oh. Good old reliable angel radio." Dean snarked.

"He was begging for help and then he just stopped. I need to know if he's still alive."

"Yeah, all right. Well... we'll come with you." Sam suggested

"Both of you?" Castiel queried.

Both of them looked at Dean who hesitated his lips parted trying to decide on his answer.

"Sure. Yeah, we could help. Gotta make sure you don't do anything else stupid."

Cas sighed looking away, hurt. Sam gave his brother a look that declared that he could always trust his brother to get the last dig in and sighed.

Dean lifted his chin and shot his brother slightly flinching but unrepentant smile.


	29. Chapter 29 Cas has regrets

**Chapter 29**

 _'Angels, man why is dealing with angels always such a pain in the ass'_ Dean wondered as they drove towards the place where the One-eyed Willy chick was probably holed up.

Damn, that Ishim was a piece of work it made his blood boil to listen to the way he spoke to Cas, to watch Cas just sit there and take it.

Yeah, he was mad at Cas, but mostly he was scared for him, he knew he was being a bit of a douche. But he needed Cas to understand that they couldn't keep making these knee jerk decisions and breaking the fricking world.

Not for him, he wasn't worth it.

Dean ran one hand through his hair and glanced at his brother.

"You email your little hobbit pen pal yet?" He questioned.

Sam pulled a rather uncalled for bitch-face "No, I don't know what to say. I dropped off the face of the earth for two months. I don't want to lie and well, the truth..."

Dean hmphed thoughtfully "So tell her you had a family business situation and you didn't have any access to email. Or" he smirked "you could tell her you were arrested for exorcising Lucifer out of the American president an' spent two months in a top-secret government facility in solitary confinement. But everything's ok now, we made a deal with a reaper then our angel friend killed her... Well, we aren't actually sure if everything's ok and we're still wondering if our angel friend is going to get vaporised at some point.

... But in the meantime we're off to try and talk down a chick who looks like Nick Fury, but not black. One that our angel pal and his assbutt feathery buddies turned hyper vengeful by killing her Nephilim kid about a hundred years ago. Actually, you can tell her ya brother says he doesn't mind if Patches ventilates all the other feathery sonofabitches, cos they're annoying pricks. But she can't have Cas."

Sam was now giving him a spectacular bitch-face from the passenger seat.

"I'm pretty sure she'll quit emailing you if you tell her that Sammy... Or, you can send her a photo like she asked and a weak excuse, totally up to you."

"It's not that simple Dean."

"Sammy that's why ya never get laid, it is that simple."

"I'm not trying to get laid Dean!"

"Ya don't know what you're trying to do Sammy. It's pretty much the problem. Either way bro, we're here."

...

Walking around the corner of the building's hallway, they came face to face with Lilly Sunder. Who gasped and slid into a fighting pose, angel blade in each hand.

"Whoa! Whoa!" Sam breathed as both Winchesters raised their hands to show they were no threat.

"Give us a second." Dean requested lifting his hands.

"How did you find me?" Lilly demanded

"We're here to talk, that's it. We come in peace. Just hear us out. We heard what happened to your family." Sam stared at Lilly making their case.

"My family?"

"See, Cas is our family, so we can't let you hurt him." Dean rumbled

"Let me?"

"We don't wanna kill you." Dean divulged trying to sound reasonable.

"I don't wanna kill you." Lilly admitted, relaxing a little.

"Okay, good. Look, there we go. Agreed. Listen, it's not Cas's fault that Heaven has these crazy rules about Nephilim."

Lilly just stared at Sam her face a little stunned.

"Your daughter." Sam clarified with a frown.

"You think..." Lilly's voice broke and she exhaled and walked towards them her lips trembling "Her name was May, and she was _beautifu_ l." The way Lilly said it was like a caress "I had a life, a _wonderful_ life, until..." again her voice faltered

"They took everything from me. All my life, I dreamed about angels. I studied them. I made them my life's work, until finally I learned the spell to summon one - _Ishim_."  
"When I first saw him, it was like looking into the face of the Divine.  
I thought he was perfect.  
But he is a _**monster.**_  
I had my daughter long before I ever laid eyes on an angel..."

"Wait, so..." The brother's faces had grown more uncertain with every passing word and the weight of what Lilly divulged.

"My daughter was human." Lilly took a shaky breath.

"Just..." Dean cleared his throat and held up a hand "Um..." looking at his brother "Are you buying any of this?" He asked with a lowered voice.

"Yeah, kinda." Sam confirmed quietly.

"All right, well, we gotta make sure, you know. I mean, Ishim's a tool, but ... You know what? I'm gonna call Cas" he pulled out his phone dialling

" _Come on, come on, come on_." The phone just rang without picking up "Yeah, he's not answering." Hanging up, Dean looked at his brother.

"Okay. Just go. I'll stay here."

"What? And leave you here with her? You kidding me? She..."

" _She_ , is no threat whatsoever to humans. And she, _can hear you_." Lilly informed them with a touch of humour.

"Okay." Muttered Dean and shared a look with his brother weighted with all the usual over-protective worry, but acknowledging Sam was fully capable, his worry for Cas who didn't know what he might be in for, won out "Okay." He muttered again as he turned to leave.

...

Sam watched Lilly gaze at a photo of her child wistfully "Can I ask you a question?" He queried

"Yeah." She said looking up.

"I-I get wanting revenge. I-I really do. But...why wait so long?"

"I had no choice. Before the angels fell, before they lost their wings, there would've been no way to hunt them down."

"But now...Patience is a talent. You'd be amazed what a person can do with a little bit of purpose and an abundance of time."

"Hmm." Sam looked away and picked up one of the angel blades, trying to find a tactful way to ask the next more important question.

"Ishim said you made some kind of pact, um... that you're using dark magic." Sam looked down, uncomfortable.

" _Did he_?" Lilly asked lips pursed "I've studied angels all my... very long life. I use their magic to fight, to hear them, to stay alive."

"Enochian magic." Sam questioned brows raised "That's...possible?" A hope flared briefly, while possibilities unfolded in his mind.

"It is if you're willing to pay the price of admission." Lilly tapped her eye patch

"Every time I use one of their spells, a piece of my soul burns away." She told him simply.

"And once it's gone...You won't _feel_ anything anymore. You won't, uh, care about anything anymore. You won't be _human_ anymore." Sam tasted the memories of being soulless in the back of his throat like bile, any thoughts of Enochian magic turned to ash.

"I used to dream about my daughter every night. Do you know what I dream about now?" Lilly asked

" _Nothing_." Sam looked down in the pause between words.

"You don't trust me. I understand. But when your brother confronts Ishim, the angel will kill him."

Lilly continued and Sam looked up, eyes narrowed with intent.

"Ishim's a big man in heaven. He's got too much to lose if the truth comes out. And when your brother's dead, you won't stand in my way anymore. You'll help me. And for that, I can wait." Sam's eyes flickered away, his mind calculating and weighing the truth.

...

They walked into the abandoned church just in time to witness the standoff between Ishim and Dean.

Dean's hand hovered over an angel banishing sigil, painted in his blood, but his eyes were on Cas's collapsed form across the room.

Sam knew before Deans hand fell away what his choice would be, daily he watched Dean choose strangers over himself, Cas was his best friend, their brother.

Lilly Sunder's yell made Ishim turn away from Dean.

The next few minutes were the usual adrenaline soaked blur that made up most of their lives. Culminating with Cas plunging an angel blade into Ishim, just before he could do likewise to Lilly.

They stood around Ishim's fallen form, watching Lilly stare down at the charred silhouette of his wings. His vessel looked small and shrunken in death.

"All right, so, uh..." Sam breathed out a centring breath "What now?"

"He's dead. Are you done?" Dean challenged

"Revenge is all I've had for over a hundred years. It's what I am." Lilly mused

"Wrong answer. You're done."

"Dean." Cas sighed, then looked up at Lilly, eyes full of weariness and regret.  
"I'm sorry. I was wrong. And... while it's true that I didn't know we were killing an innocent, ignorance is no excuse."

Cas got to his feet and approached the woman, hands clasped in front of him, his face earnest and holding grief.

"I truly can't imagine the depths of your loss."  
"This was your child."  
"I can't imagine the pain."  
"So, if you leave here and you find that you can't forgive me...I'll be waiting."

The brothers watched their friends battered face, barely daring to breath, as he watched Lilly. There was no making this right.

"Thank you." She said simply, her words of thanks a brush of forgiveness that left Cas looking battered on the inside when she turned to leave.

...

Cas sat at the map table where he had slumped when they'd returned. Carrying beer, both Winchester boys joined him.

Dean slid Cas a beer and clapped him gently on the shoulder.

"You earned it." He said warmly, Cas glanced up momentarily.

"Well, this will do very little for me, but I-I appreciate the gesture."

Dean slid into the chair opposite Cas, studying his friend.

"What Ishim said...You're not weak, Cas. You know that, right?" Dean eyed his friend and Cas looked down again.

"I mean, obviously, you've changed, but it's all been for the better, man." Sam continued from his perch on the map table beside Cas.

"And you have been with us every step of this long, crazy thrill ride.  
And no matter how crazy it got, you never backed down."

"And that takes real strength." Sam continued from his brother.

"Thank you." Cas said looking away

"Cas, I don't like how the whole Billie thing went down. Okay?"  
"I know you think you were doing the right thing."  
"And I'm not mad... I'm worried." Sam felt a moment of amusement, listening to his brother do a parenting type lecture aimed at their angel friend.  
"Because things like 'cosmic consequences' have a habit of biting us in the ass."

"I know they do." Cas acknowledged "But I don't regret what I did, even if it costs me my life." he looked meaningfully at both brothers

"Don't say that, man." Sam muttered looking down at his beer

"So what are you gonna do if you find Kelly and, uh, Lucifer Junior?"  
"It is a Nephilim, right?" Dean bowled right into the next mess.

"Oh, no. It's more than that."  
"An ordinary Nephilim is one of the most dangerous beings in all of creation."  
"But one that's fathered by an archangel, the Devil himself?"  
"I...I can't imagine the power."

"But, Cas, at the end of the day, it's a mom and her kid."  
"I mean, do you - do you think you'll be able to..." Sam asked, thinking that lately his life was having a huge dose of mothers and their children, it was almost a conspiracy.

"There was a time when I wouldn't have hesitated."  
"But now, I don't know." Cas shot them a half smile

"What are we gonna do?" Dean rumbled

"Let's drink, and hope we can find a better way." Cas answered simply.

Sam took a swig of his beer and considered his brother and his friend. Mothers and their children made him think of Michele half a world away, he longed to ask Cas about her.

But he hesitated. Cas had changed, it was true... but still, Sam worried that if the woman was a prophet, Cas would feel honour bound to inform heaven and let the angels take her into protective custody. He was pretty convinced that Michele would rather die than leave her family. Besides, she seemed safer away from angel politics, pretty much everyone was, Sam thought sourly... Including Cas.


	30. Chapter 30 The art of cyber stalking

**Chapter 30**

Sam was being a sulky little emo bitch, there were premenstrual teenage girls with boyfriend issues that would be less hassle to live with, Dean thought sourly as his brother checked his email again for the millionth time in 10 minutes. Sam huffed and pulled a kicked puppy face, making Dean grind his teeth irritated. _'Maybe I can send him to live with Jodie for a bit, He can sit round with Claire and Alex and be angsty with his own kind.'_

"Sam, will you just email her already." He grated slamming shut the book about angels he'd been attempting to read.

Sam turned the kicked puppy look on him "Sammy it's not that big a deal, what ya got to lose?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak, looked torn and closed it again, grinding his palm across eyes etched with shadows, Sam huffed and pushed his hair back "Its just complicated ok? I'm not sure..." Sam broke off.

Dean pulled the laptop over and considered his brother "What's her name again?"

"Chadwick, Michele with one L Chadwick" Sam answered with a put-upon huff.

"Yahtzee. Your pen pals on the great book of faces Sammy."

"Dean...!" His brother objected.

"Ahh and look at all that interesting info, that's the town where she lives. Her previous employer, her home town and what University she attended. Shall we go find her phone number and address from the online phonebook, can't be too many of them out there, bingo that'll be ya girl! Now we've got her address let's have a look at her house on google maps Hu?" Dean shot his brother a grin, pleased with himself "Look at that a lovely sign written vehicle in the driveway, hubby's ya think? And a silver people mover, want ta hazard a guess at the make and model. That'd be the family car no doubt. She's following two schools on Facebook, wanna bet me that's where her kids go. Wanna go look at the schools too Sam?" Dean raised an eyebrow at his younger brother clearly enjoying playing cyber stalker.

"Dean, stop... I did all that ok?... I also looked at her birth and marriage certificates, medical files, her college transcripts, employment history, the property records on their house. Uh the ...works. She's what she says she is." Sam admitted looking uncomfortable.

Dean hummed, slightly surprised "That's some quality stalking ya've be'n doin Sam, s-o what's left to be unsure about? She's a glorified pen pal that may have a little somethin' somethin' mojo, it's not like ya floating her a loan Sammy."

"Dean" Sam sounded tired "just leave it ok, I really don't see why you care. We do have more important things to worry about."

"I'll... I'll handle it, you don't have to be a jerk."

"Did Cas turn up anything on Kelly Kline yet?" It was a transparent attempt to shift the conversation, but Dean decided against pushing it.

"Nada" Dean wandered over to the whiskey decanter and looked a little surprised to see it was empty. "Looks like we need to go on a supply run."

Frowning Sam glanced at his watch "Dean... it's a bit...early? Isn't it...?"

"For a supply run Sam? Hardly" Dean scoffed deliberately misinterpreting his brothers meaning. "Ya coming or what?"

...

Michele was having a good day, beginning with a lazy Sunday morning, the family had made it to church and out again, without meltdowns or dramas. Now with everyone fed, the toddler was napping and the rest of the family was in the lounge playing some online Minecraft thing. Apparently, it was so riveting it was even keeping the hubby occupied.

For the first time in days, a faint headache was beginning to gather. Hardly thinking about it now, Michele opened a file and began typing, letting the words flow through her and out to become a chapter. It was definitely much easier not to fight it. A small part of her marvelled how something could become just part of your life, even if it made no sense.

It had been what? Four days, five? Long enough that one of her readers had sent her a message saying they really liked her story and they were looking forward to the next chapter, it had a feeling of Oliver Twist saying "please sir, can I have some more" and had amused her despite herself.

There was a weird symbiotic relationship between readers and writers on fanfic, you could hardly call her writing process _ordinary_ , and yet still there was that 'thing' she'd laughingly called ficwriters ailment, the need to know someone was out there listening and reading. People's reviews and feedback were oddly comforting.

Was it the difference between bleeding out onto the floor and into a transfusion bag? Maybe, if even one person got something out of it there was some point to her discomfort, after all.

Besides, now that she'd actually read it and thought about it, TTYH was sort of... smart, now. Now there were actual Winchesters in it, you might mistake it for … not in fact being a total pile of drivel. One reviewer had described it as unique (how funny was that? They had no damn idea how unique it was) and well, miracle of miracles there seemed to be a plot lurking in there.

A rueful smile found its way to her face. Was it a bit like child birth? Had she forgotten, that easily, how nasty things had been only a short while ago?

It only took someone to cluck and coo over this thing that had ripped out of her in blood and pain and she found herself staring at it thinking wow, this is mine? Cool.

Of course, Michele thought with a twist of cynicism that left her eyes drained of humour, when a matricidal murder was born _its_ mother probably looked at that child, that would in the fullness of time kill her, with big wondering eyes filled with awe as well.

...

Sam wondered why he'd suggested Dean make the supply run alone, they'd been irritating each other, true. Too much time rattling about together in the bunker like the last two peanuts in a can.

Nuts, yeah.

He knew they both had issues since West Guantanamo, they'd been huddled together like two kids afraid of the dark and scared to be alone. Each resenting the need, the weakness and taking it out on each other. If Cas or Mom were here maybe it would be different. They'd be a bit more diluted while licking their wounds. But Mom and Cas were both off somewhere. Checking in occasionally.

Meanwhile they were laying low. Strangely enough, there didn't seem to be any man hunt going on for them. You'd think there would be, considering they supposedly attempted to assassinate the President.

Of course, they were also 'recovering.'

Ahh, recovering was such a polite term for Deans spiralling alcohol consumption.

But he could hardly talk, he tipped the hip flask he'd found in his desk draw, and took a swig, his head was already buzzing.

But, maybe he'd manage some alcohol induced sleep that didn't end with screaming himself awake at the feel of Lucifer's hands holding him down, while that laughter echoing in his head.

It was maddening, that now, now Lucifer was locked back in the cage he was constantly haunted by flashback nightmares.

He'd always sworn he wouldn't travel down the road Dad and Dean had blazed, using alcohol to deal with life's crap.

Yet here he was.

He shoved the flask back in the draw with a huff. Raking a hand through his hair restlessly, he put on some music. To cut the silence.

He'd thought it would be good for both of them, to have some space from each other, when he'd suggested Dean go on the supply run alone. Now Dean was gone and the bunker seemed unsettlingly silent, even with music playing.

Catching himself, just about to check his email _again_ , Sam frowned in irritation, it was no wonder Dean was on his case.

It was also no wonder Dean didn't understand why he didn't just email her and send a photo.

That was because Dean didn't know about "The Thing You Hate." His glorified pen pal had seen far too much, and seeing a photo of him would probably send the whole house of cards tumbling down round both of their ears.

He'd told himself he wouldn't read the bloody story again, after that first night back in the bunker. But with each hour Michele didn't email, wondering if she was okay became more insistent.

With a shrug, he found his way to fan fiction and opened her story. Seeing it had actually been updated a handful of hours ago, Sam felt himself relax,

"Well at least she's still alive." He muttered out loud to the deserted room, as if it cared.

...

Sam looked away from Chapter 25, as the words seemed to blur before his eyes.

The Thing You Hate, she'd named the fricking story rather aptly he opinioned, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing his grainy eyes.

Fuck he really didn't want to read this, he didn't want to relive those moments in the forest. He didn't want to feel this again. To remember Dean scamming away his life, with a stupid kids' game.

Dragging the hip flask of whiskey from the desk draw once more, he took a few gulps, along with a dozen deep breaths and trained his eyes back onto the words, like an act of self-flagellation.

Clicking over to the next chapter he read the first few lines, then stopped frozen and began chewing on his bottom lip, there were some things you shouldn't do.

Maybe, this was the reason he'd been so reluctant to tell Dean about this story.

His whole life he'd wanted to know what Dean truly thought and felt. But every word his brother said, every emotion he allowed to grudgingly leak through, was so guarded. He wanted more, he'd spent his whole life wanting more. And here it was. A window into his brother's head.

It was a _violation_ a _betrayal_ , to knowingly read this, _but ohh fuck he so wanted to!_

Without really noticing, he drained the rest of the whiskey as he teetered on the brink of doing what he knew deep down he shouldn't.

...

Sam shuddered, looking inside someone's head was bad idea, especially when all you had to go on was a few scattered sentences. What did Michele mean by

'He'd been ready to die, had steeled himself to it.

 **Had almost welcomed it truth be told'**

Those words, along with the words Billie had said about the time he'd been shot during the werewolf case in Grangeville, Idaho. Made him wonder about things he'd rather not contemplate.  
Was his brother suicidal? Something moved in Sam's chest like a splinter of shattered glass.  
He'd never considered that night from Deans perspective,

 **'Why was everyone willing to die for him, but not willing to live for him?'**

Was that really how he felt? A breath of pain forced its way past his lips.

A memory of Deans half heard drunken words that night in the impala "Sammy don't ever say you love me." Suddenly made painful sense, did Dean really think that people said they loved him _only_ when they were leaving him.

That night Dean'd been saying "don't leave me."

Sometimes he forgot how broken and ... human his brother had to be, under that impassive mask he habitually wore. Sam swallowed around the lump forming in his throat.

His eyes followed the words lower, his own thoughts laid bare. Again, that twist of guilt, the reinforced determination to be a better son.

Finally, he got some answers about Michele, she was ok, living life and a bit sad but beginning to let him go.

Sam felt a pang of pain at that.

He tried to shake it off, telling himself it was better for both of them if she did. That he couldn't expect a stranger on the other side of the world to hang on indefinitely. Clenching his jaw and dragging a rough hand across his eyes in self-disgust Sam looked away from the screen breathing harshly. Eyes landing in the hip flask he knocked it aside noticing how diminished his reactions were ' _this is why I don't drink'_ he told himself.

So there it was, the record up until he'd read out her emails. Sam took a shaky breath, wanting more and resenting the fact. Who in their right mind wanted more of something like that?

His eyes fell on the small checkbox at the end of the story.

Clicking to follow and favourite, muzzily he thought that at least it was a way he could keep invisible tabs on her and know she was still out there, okay.

6 slow heartbeats later it hit him what he'd done.

Aghast he realised she'd get an email telling her he'd followed and favourited her story. There was nothing he could do to take it back.

Cursing savagely at his own alcohol fuelled stupidity Sam tried to work out what to do about the giant clusterfuck he'd just created.


	31. Chapter 31 That's how its done

**Chapter 31**

Sam stood, eyes closed feeling the hot water needle his scalp, running through his hair and down his back. With his eyes closed the world was narrowed to the darkness behind his eyelids and the slightly unsteady off kilter sensation that came from too much whiskey.

Sam mulled over the email he'd begun writing as the warm water drummed its heated fingers into his muscles, trying to remove the tension brought on by his own alcohol fuelled stupidity.

He'd decided to go with the route Dean had suggested, apologise and not give any useful details about exactly why or how he'd managed to be totally out of email reach for two whole months.

The photo though, was a problem, he couldn't send her one of him, not unless he wanted her to have a heart attack and a nervous breakdown rolled in to one.

On the other side of the world. Alone.

"The talk" was one of those things that should not be done on line, or even over the phone. Usually the person involved had had a life-threatening brush with the supernatural that softened them up. Then preferably, you blocked all the exits and forced a few stiff drinks on the person, first.

So, he couldn't send her his photo, he figured that Deans was probably out of the question too. Some random guy off the street then?

Lies again? But for a good cause, he told himself. Sam looked down at the water draining past his feet and swirling down the drain.

Maybe, he thought, he should simply bite the bullet and lay things on the table, stop trying to protect her or let her keep that idea her life was normal. Work out what she was and if she was any use (or threat) to them.

Or leave her the hell alone, let her feel hurt or jilted or whatever. Stop looking at fan fiction. Just shut the door and walk away. Leave the mystery of what she was alone.

With a groan, Sam rested his head against the shower wall wishing someone else would make that call, he longed to hand it over to Dean and say "you decided." The patterns of childhood, being the little brother.

Abdicating responsibility to his brother was a lure that he fought constantly. He wasn't a child, he should be able to fight his own battles. He was a grown man for fckssake. He'd battled angels, demons and Gods sister, endured unimaginable tortures, gone into battle against world-shaking evils and had almost ended the world twice, then helped to saved it... and here he couldn't see straight to handle one naive housewife ... crap that was beyond pathetic.

...

Dean followed the music down the hallway to his brother's room, finding his room empty and Sam's phone lying on his bed.

Heart drumming, he turned off Sam's iPod, then heard the shower running down the hall.

Sam located, he swallowed down the tug of anxiety irritably. He hated the way that since Toni Bevell and their stay in solitary he still felt driven to know where his little brother was constantly. It was worse than when Sam was a toddler and taking care of Sammy was his Dad ordained duty.

Looking down at Sam's phone, he found that Sam had _finally_ written an email to his hobbit chick, 'bout time too.

Sometimes Sammy was just downright weird with chicks. Next, he'd go all bashful and be a total chick about the photo she'd requested, no doubt.

But Dean wasn't in the mood to put up with that today, carrying a copy of the local paper he'd picked up on the supply run, Dean made his way to the map room and pinned the paper over some of Cas's Kelly Kline research. Then sat down with a bottle of milk and Sam's phone in front of him, humming a Metallica tune and drumming with his fingers on the map table, waiting for Sam.

...

Dressed and feeling marginally soberer, Sam had decided that the walk away option might make the most sense.

He'd thought he'd left his phone in his room but it wasn't on his bed, Dean was back so maybe he'd chucked it on charge. Sam followed his brothers humming and hand drum solo to the map room.

...

"Dean, have you seen..."

"Heads up Sammy" Dean tossed him something he assumed was beer but was heavier and more unwieldy. Still not totally sober, Sam caught it fumblingly and frowned at the milk bottle in confusion.

"Look at me Sam."

Sam looked up at his brother, Dean snapped a photo with his phone clicked a few things and announced "and that's how it's done!" with a self-satisfied smile.

"Dean, the milk goes..." his voice dried up as he realised what he was holding. Swinging around, he saw the newspaper pinned on the board by his shoulder.

 _"Tell me you didn't just send that to her_ " he hissed horrified.

"Dude, I know you probably wanted to fuss with your hair and makeup for an hour first, but as guys go you're easy enough on the eye not to sweat it, little bro... not as hot as me of course, cos I'm awesome. Besides, as you keep tellin' me, she's married and it's _'not like that.'..."_ Dean rambled on good-naturedly unaware of Sam's reaction until his brother grabbed him by his jacket and hauled him halfway across the table.

Deans green eyes flared wide with shock " _Christo_ , Sam?!"

Sam dropped his hands away from his brother, almost as if burned "You don't _know_ what you just did." Sam didn't sound mad now, he almost sounded scared as he backed away from his brother.

Dean followed, his hands raised, unthreatening, eyes never leaving Sam's face "What _did_ I do?"

"Jesus Dean, you dropped our _whole_ fucking world on her head. With a fucking _email_. She's on the other side of the fucking world, Dean. Alone, with our crap. She doesn't deserve that."

"Don't get so worked up Sammy."

"She knows my freaking _face_ , Dean. She's still writing Winchester fucking gospels or whatever the Hell you want to call them. She thinks they're just a story that she gets killer migraines and nose bleeds if she doesn't write, but she's _fought_ doing it... because she's _stubborn_ and _stupid_ and ... _moral_ ...Finding out we're real, quite literally _could_ kill her. _And there's not a thing we can do now."_

Dean laid his hands on Sam's arms and looked up into his brothers flinching face.

Wordless.


	32. Chapter 32 Storytime

**Chapter 32**

Monday morning. The sky was dark and brooding, thunderclouds marched across the sky, the light held an almost electric purple quality, making everything seem vivid and slightly unreal.

Michele shrugged her shoulders uncomfortably feeling the pressure in the air subliminally.

 _"A few more minutes and we better get going"_ she told herself pursuing her small son in yet another circuit around the park, following the blue and black Pukeko, wishing momentarily that her phone wasn't out of data because her ficfriend Cat was quite taken with the odd NZ marsh birds and this one was almost tame.

She'd grown accustomed to walking through daily life with a pocket full strangers she shared stuff with, but Peaches was working on an assignment, Cat should be sleeping anyway (but no doubt wouldn't be.) And her other chat regular Cougar Mommy mostly only talked to her when the rest of America slept and she was at an insomnia fuelled loose end (no illusions there, but actually, that kind of friendship suited her perfectly since Sam's bizarre sex change and exit from her life.) She could cope without data fine, she wasn't a teenager.

A fat drop of rain hit her face, announcing that it was time to scoop up her progeny and do the hundred-yard dash back to the car before the heavens really unburdened themselves.

...

The library, stop three of the Monday routine (after school drop off and duck pond) where they would exchange books and attend "Storytime."

A badly named library activity that actually involved the uncontrollable chaos of 20 odd small children and their handlers sitting round a children's librarian, who always wore a logic defyingly short dress, and singing a bunch of kiddie action songs.

There would be a story involved at some point, but it was rather hit and miss whether you could actually hear it over a chorus of irate toddlers.

Michele's personal favourite had been the day someone's wee darling had swiped the story book and Stephanie the librarian in her microscopic and gravity defying dress had chased the toddler round for several minutes before retrieval, you couldn't pay for entertainment like that.

Right now, they still 10 minutes or so before "Storytime" so it was time for toddler book roulette.

Release Mr 2 and suggest he find her a book to read, some days this became a game of "chase me round and through every book stack in the library, then watch me try to pull all the books about, say, tantric sex off the shelf to mortify mummy."

The little blighter really was his father's son, she'd give him that for free.

Thankfully today Mr 2 and troublesome choose a book called "Nat the Cats Sunshine Smile" by Jez Alborough who had also written the Chadwick family favourite "Duck in a Truck."

Nat the cat apparently had woken up feeling wonderful and was off for a picnic with her friends, however when she went to meet each of her friends they'd had yucky mornings and were not in a picnicking mood. So, Nat gave them a smile and a pat and went on her way.

 _"Poor Nat"_ Michele thought with a sigh _"it really sucks when you try to be nice to people and they leave you high and dry"_ she bit her lip and kept reading (definitely NOT thinking of Sam.)

Of course, this was a kiddie book so after Nat left her friends to sulk, her magic smile made them _all better_ and just when she was sitting sad and alone with the picnic she no longer wanted, her friends came and gave her back her smile and they all had a wonderful picnic.

 _"Real life is_ _definitely_ _not a kiddie book."_ Michele thought and reached for the next book to begin reading.

"Look who it is Ollie" a voice made Michele look up "it's Michele and Christopher Chadwick."

Michele looked across the library to see her friend Paula and her white-blonde ringlet topped son approaching, and smiled.

"You came! I thought since it was raining you'd stay home."

"I did message you."

"Uh" Michele tilted her phone "out of data." Paula gave her a look.

"The library has Wi-Fi you know..." Paula admonished.

"Yeah but… I'm a tech idiot, I keep meaning to ask hubby or the daughters... but well..." Michele fixed her friend with a set of helpless green eyes and a rueful shrug.

"Oh, give it here" Her friend half laughed at her, then swiped and tapped a few things and the miracle of internet happened.

"Thank you. Oh, look Paula's sent me a message" Michele grinned.

"Yeah and I bet I know what it says too.  
Hi Mel.."

Michele watched Paula go over to greet another mum. Paula was amazing, one of those playcentre, PTA mums, who was involved in every committee meeting and knew everyone and amazingly everyone _liked_.

Michele left Paula to her effortless social dance and began reading again, Ollie wandered over uninterested in his mum's discussions and Michele popped him up on her other knee, resting her chin between platinum curls and her own sons soft honey blonde mop, reading of furry animal adventures.

When Stephanie of the micro skirt arrived, Paula drifted back over and took her seat next to Michele, in the lull Michele figured she'd just, umm, check her emails... not that she was addicted or wanted to know if she had any reviews for the chapter she'd posted of course... Michele looked sideways at her friend wondering what Paula'd think if she knew that she was moonlighting as a fan fiction writer.

Somehow, that topic just never surfaced into her conversations with her everyday friends.

A new follower yay!

Michele gave a small yip of surprise seeing who the follower was

SWrocksaltandsilver.

Sam?!

Then she saw an email from Sam. Just sitting there along with the follower notification, like it had every right to just sit there.

That it hadn't been MONTHs.

How stupid was it, that her heartbeat was drumming in her ears and her hands were shaking?

Michele wished she could be like one of those sassy black women on Oprah Winfrey or one of those American talk shows she'd never watched but somehow knew about, who would do the finger waggle and head bob and declare "No he didn't!" And strut off nose in the air. Instead she clicked on Sam's email.

The air leaked out of her lungs.

She knew that face.

Reaching out blindly she gripped her friends shoulder

"Can you..." her hand waved vaguely at her child as she forced the words out of a throat knotted tight "I think I'm going to puke."

Turning away she half staggered to the bathroom. Locking the door and falling to her knees on the grimy bathroom floor, she lost her breakfast, most of it made it into the porcelain. One hand gripped the seat and keep her balance, while the other still gripped her phone so tight that her knuckles popped.

That was Sam? ... But it couldn't be, she knew that face. That ... was Sam Winchester from her dreams.

She couldn't breathe.

The whole world seemed to throb with her pounding heartbeat. Her hand holding the phone shook with it, so badly she couldn't even see the face in the photo anymore, but the lines of that face were burned into her mind.

Her breathing came in ragged gasps.

Thoughts tumbled in her head like dominoes.

Sam gone without a word for two months.

Sam Winchester in a cell.

No!

No no no no!

That was crazy, she was crazy.

There was real life and then there was Supernatural.

It Was Just A Story.

The dominos in her head kept mercilessly falling, each one leading to another.

Finally unlocking her fist, she let the phone fall to the floor, cringing away from it like it might attack her.

Curling up on the bathroom floor. Arms wrapped round her knees, pressing her body into a ball like her son did when he was in full autistic melt down.

"No no no no. Not real, I can't. I WONT believe it. It's not real. he's not... I didn't. I'm not. I can't. It's just a mistake, a joke, I've lost it."

Her breathless whimpers broke off when a vision hit.

It wasn't like the previous half seen flashes, more like a gushing mental download crammed into her skull till it felt like it would explode. Days of information and experience in mere moments.

Finishing with the look on Sam and Dean Winchesters faces.

Crawling back to the toilet she puked again, there was nothing left but bile. Now mixed with fresh blood from her nose.

...

Wrung out and shivering, drenched in oily sweat, Michele rested her chin on the plastic toilet seat, staring at the blood and bile smeared there, aware but not totally caring how gross that was.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been there, but now her emotional circuits seemed to have blown and left her with a numb kind of calmness, it was apparent that curling up on the library's toilet floor wasn't the world's best response. She needed to get a grip.

Dragging herself to her feet using the hand basin for support she splashed water in her face, then sponged the worst of the puke and blood off her shirt, and the floor with a handful of paper towels.

She needed to get her son and herself home, heaven willing Mr 2 would fall asleep in the car on the drive home and she'd have two and a half hours to either put herself back together or fall apart. The truth was something she'd deal with in due course.

...when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

The question was, where did impossible begin? Michele shoved the thoughts away and checked her reflection in the mirror.

Either way there was a kid who would be waiting for her, and only her to pick him up from school at 3pm. So, she needed to get herself glued back together by then.

She was a Mum.

She was _His_ Mum.

Mental breakdowns, the impossible, Winchesters, an apocalypse or the second coming could take a number.

Some things were non-negotiable.


	33. Chapter 33 Oil and Water

**Chapter 33**

Michele carried her small sleeping child in from the car, lay him on his bed slipped off his shoes and covered him with a blanket.

Putting off the thing she was uncertain and unwilling to deal with for a while longer; Lingering she looked down at sooty lashes brushing peach soft cheeks, a rosebud mouth relaxed in innocent sleep. Reaching out she stroked the soft waves of honey blonde baby hair.

Turning away reluctantly, she ran her hand back through her own hair, encountering something else she didn't want to consider too deeply, but needed to deal with.

Ugh she needed a shower and clean clothes.

...

The question was, did she really believe in where the evidence was leading, the question rolled in her mind finding nowhere to settle. Did she really need to?

It wouldn't be the first time she'd been faced with things that didn't totally fit and instead of choosing to believe or disbelieve, had simply placed them in a sort of mental pending basket.

Images stirred briefly in the deep-water lake of her mind.

Opening cupped palms and watching the fly buzz free.

Scorched grass and a knife lying where there hadn't been anything.

A man on a chestnut horse calling out to draw help for her, but strangely only observing, then gone.

Prayers answered and the consequence of prayers not prayed.

All things that asked a question she'd fled answering. Like standing on the brink of a cliff and simply turning your face away, to look elsewhere.

The ability to balance on that knife edge between belief and disbelief indefinitely and yet move forward required a certain amount of compartmentalisation.

But, it wasn't so different from what it took to know that Peaches as an American was 73.68% more likely to be murdered than she was in New Zealand.

Or that children died hourly from lack of clean water in third world countries.

Or that there were countries out there, with enough nuclear weapons to slag the planet to radioactive waste.

Or that people killed each other over faith.

Facts that existed but didn't penetrate. They lay on the surface like oil on water and didn't mix. Oh, you could shake them up and it would seem they'd mixed, but left to settle they always parted ways.

So yes, she could believe and not believe in America as the haunt of mythical monsters and Winchesters, she could place it all in a compartment that touched nothing else.

Except that wasn't fully true, was it? The day Peaches had told her class was cancelled and she'd been about to make a throw away comment about bomb threats, then realised that shit! It wasn't funny, because things like that really happened there.  
Yes, it had sunk in that 73.68%.

Caring made it soak in. Like one drop of detergent made oil dissolve effortlessly into the water.

And that was the problem.

It wasn't the only problem, the other problem was that this time, the luxury of putting it aside, not choosing might be out of her reach. This time, something was at work pushing her towards that cliff, and denying it wasn't being tolerated.

With a sigh, she seated herself at the PC and stared at the friend requests on Facebook and Skype.

A brief ironic smile at the ?memory? of Dean cyber stalking her flitted across her lips, she deleted the Facebook request out of hand, her daughters used Facebook. And apparently, she needed to update the privacy on her Facebook profile.

For a long time, she stared at the Skype request. She'd gotten Skype for Peaches and it only had her three fic messaging contacts. Even so there was real discomfort, thinking of her two fickids and cougar even sharing an app with the unnerving potential that Sam held.

Reminding herself that neither fic denizens nor possible Winchester could touch each other simply by sharing an app (and who would be in greater danger anyway? She asked herself) she accepted Sam's request.

...

"Thank you."

The word appeared on Sam's screen filling him with a certain amount of bafflement. It wasn't what he expected.

"Michele?" Time seemed to crawl slowly before her reply popped up.

"Yeah, the one and only."

"I don't understand 'Thank you'?"

"Well Sam, in civilised places people usually use that word as a gesture of gratitude, say if someone saved the world more than once, that might require a gesture of gratitude such as the word Thank you."

"So... you're okay?" Sam typed cautiously.

The minutes lagged.

"Hobbits are fairly resilient."

Dean rumbled in the back of his throat, from his position hovering behind his brother's shoulder "Well this is great fun watching you two dance about like a couple of lawyers. Shift over Sam."

"Dean ..."

"Move Sam." Sam gave over the keyboard reluctantly.

"Michele, Dean here, let's cut the crap shall we?"

"Dean!" Sam objected shooting his brother a horrified look.

"Ok Dean, what's your last name and who is the person you were calling Patches a few days ago?"

Dean looked across at his brother and favoured him with a grin "Told ya Sammy"

"My names Dean (none of your fricking business what my middle name is) Winchester.  
My brother is Samuel William Winchester.  
And the chicks name was Lilly Sunder. Satisfied?"

"Of course, I am Dean, it's why people get married."

"Whatever. So, what the hell are ya?"

"How the heck should I know, you're supposed to be the resident experts on weird supernatural stuff. You tell me."

"Thought you read Chucks books or was that just for the descriptions of yours truly naked."

"Dean!"

"Coulda been for descriptions of you Sammy."

"The nice thing about books Dean, is you can skip over unpleasant stuff. Thank goodness it's Sam I'm stuck following, my eyeballs would probably bleed if I had to watch you whore your way across America."

Sam chuckled and his brother shot him a glare.

"Nice, real lady ya picked up Sammy. Bitchy little hobbit."

"You were being a jerk, Dean."

"Sorry Dean, that was uncalled for. Yes, I read the books but they were supposed to be fiction. I wasn't studying for an exam or anything. I'm aware you probably hate me, ficwriters aren't your favourite creatures. You have got that right –  
We all have our coping mechanisms, with everything you've endured it's amazing you're not curled up rocking in a corner singing nursery rhymes. You have my respect and thanks for all you have done and endured. Unlike you guys I'm not a hero. An hour ago, the question of what 'I am' would have been answered wife and Mum. Sorry for being a bitch"

"Crap, feel like I kicked a puppy now." Dean muttered and shoved the laptop back at his brother.

"Michele, its Sam here."

"Sam I'm sorry... I didn't mean..."

"Dean would be sorry too, if admitting that wouldn't cause him to burst into flames."

"He's allowed to be grumpy about this...  
I seriously don't know what I am. And I doubt I'm any practical use to you."

"So how does it work?"

"I see some things, visions and dreams they don't make much sense to me. I don't know if I'm seeing it before or at the same time it happens. At some point after, I sort of ... have to write stuff, sometimes it fills in the gaps. Maybe… I don't knowww -deep breaths- I have no idea how much of what I write is true except my stuff."

"You're getting migraines and nose bleeds?"

There was a lag.

"Yes Sam."

"Are both your parents alive?"

"You're asking if I had a demonic visitor at six months old? I'm older than you Sam and ... I thought all the special kids were Americans and got their call up for the Cold Oak hunger games. I was born and bred in New Zealand, I'm not adopted and both my parents are alive. There have never been any fires."

"Have you ever felt unclean?"

"I'm not sure how to answer that. But no I don't think so."

"Cas might be able to tell us if you're a prophet."

"NO!"

"Michele."

"No Sam, no no no no. I actually don't give a damn what I am. I don't want to know and I certainly don't want anything from your world knowing I exist."

"You're not thinking clearly, knowing what you are could help."

"Ask Mrs Tran how that worked out, ask Kevin's girlfriend, I don't want angels demons, monsters or witches knowing I exist Sam!  
It's in your best interest NOONE knows about me, because the moment they do, what I see becomes a chink in your armour. And if I have to choose between my family and you or saving the bloody world ... I'm not a hero, I'm just a Mum."

"Cas is trustworthy."

"Really? I like heavens most autistic angel too, Sam. But me and my family we are disposable entities in this equation, just like Kevin and his loved ones. I'm not saying you wouldn't care, but I'm not dumb enough to think I'm more than a glorified pen pal and my family are more than concepts to you. If Castiel thought I was a risk to his precious Winchesters he'd run me through. Or hand me over to be dragged into the desert, my family needs me here Sam. It's non-negotiable."

Sam pushed away from the screen, old wounds re-opened. He wished he could deny the charges, looking across at Dean as he paced the floor restlessly he gathered Dean felt the same.

"Then how can we help...?" He typed after minutes of silence.

"I'm not sure you can Sam, at least not much more than not … not serving me and mine up on a plate to the conglomerated supernatural world.  
I don't think you're supposed to help me, I'm not even sure I can help you. I'll try of course but...  
Look I have to go, Mr 2s just woken up, then I have to get Mr 8 from school. It's late there, go get some food and sleep. I'm fine, you're both fine. Leave it there Hu?"

Michele logged out.

Dean looked at his brother.

"Dude, your hobbit just sent you to bed."


	34. Chapter 34 Real life?

**Chapter 34**

Michele was sitting at the kitchen table when her husband came home from work that afternoon, staring into space with a pile of her favourite books in front of her. Having run the gauntlet of 4 loud excited children he was surprised that his wife seemed oblivious to his presence until he walked up behind her and gave her butt a playful swat, making her jump.

The eyes that looked up at him were red rimmed and the vivid green that came with shed tears.

"Everything ok?"

"Yeah, I got an email from Sam today."

"Sam?"

"The fanfic one, that wasn't a girl."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, seems one of their jobs went wrong, they've been in jail."

"Jail... well that's ..." he cleared his throat "So he's a criminal?"

"No ... I don't think so, more they were in the wrong place at the wrong time and it took a while to sort out."

"Hmm, so he sent you the photo?" Her husband was less than thrilled with the entire conversation. Chatting with a couple of university students and sparky red head was one thing. Swapping emails with a bunch of other women was pretty harmless too. But talking to a guy that had been in prison ...

"Yeah." She handed him her phone.

"He doesn't exactly look like a hardened criminal, does he? Actually, he looks kind of sick. I imagine a private investigator mightn't be everyone's best friend in prison. He have a hard time in there?"

Michele didn't say anything, looking distinctly miserable.

"Hey, I know you can't help caring about people...just remember not everyone and everything is your problem. And don't let yourself get sucked in too deep ok" Uncomfortable with the conversation, looking down at the books on the table Michele's husband grinned. "It's ok…the only blokes I really have to worry about stealing you away are those two bloody Winchesters. Why I introduced you to them I have no idea."

His wife got the strangest look on her face then, got up and walked out of the room quickly.

He was left wondering why the joke fell so flat. Women were the strangest creatures some days.

...

"Allo?"

"Hi Peachy girl"

"Missed you yesterday, did you have a migraine."

"Just a headache, apparently, it goes by the title of 'Real Life', or the close approximation. How're your assignments going?"

"I just about finished one of your favourite sort, want to read through it when I'm done?"

"Always, hey got a question if I wanted to be less traceable on email and Skype how would I do it?"

"You ok?"

"Yeah, think of it as story research."

"Well for a start, you'd signup for new email and Skype accounts and NOT use your name or anything, don't fill in anything you don't have to, don't use real info, random strings of letters and numbers are good."

"Ugh I can't think of an ID, what would you call AU me?"

"HobbitualPsychik"

"Laughs, I'd so hate that, but I'm gonna use it since 'Peaches' is helping me sort "my story stuff"

"Hahaha

Yes, the puns and spelling"

"Yes, groan inducingly bad. But I guess that it's fitting. As always, you prove you are worthy of your Olympian status, you're by far the sweetest and cutest Olympian too. AU Michele thanks you for your technical advice."

"Both of 'us' are blushing."

"Half smile, write fanfic and totally mess with reality, your world view and the time space continuum. But on the up side your friends get cloned."

"Not everyone's stories are like yours."

"True, if Sam Winchester was real and you met him, what would you say to him?"

"Probably "uh Hi."

"Not sorry about that stuff in China and shooting you ... or anything?"

"You'd probably burst into tears, shove a puppy and some MMs at him and wail "I'm sorry about the mermaid.""

"I might say Thank you first. And I'm not entirely sure their lifestyle coincides with pet ownership."

"Meeting Sam might not be very healthy for me though, I've got blonde curly hair and want to attend Stanford... don't really want to burn on the ceiling."

Michele felt suddenly sick starring at the screen, how was she supposed to balance this? It was insane.

"You _could_ burn me on the ceiling, that'd up the angst for your fic. I don't mind."

Michele ground her teeth taking deep breaths, "Well I do! Please don't say that. EVER! Go finish that assignment Hu? I'm looking forward to reading it."

"Yes Kiwi Mum."

Michele closed her eyes and bit her lip, she was shaking, she realized.  
Being inserted into the world of Supernatural was no fun at all. Suddenly everywhere she turned the world she thought she knew was just a thin veneer, a children's game that hid a darker secret.

One she could never tell.

And everyone she knew and cared for seemed ransom to her silence.

...

"Salutations Brothers Winchester

Greetings from the shire, residence of the psychic hotline. While we await a message from the great beyond can I ask you to do me a solid? And generally, obliterate and obliviate my Michele Chadwick email addresses from your records and instead use the following HobbitualPsychik at gmail dot com for both Skype and email. The awful puns are curtesy of my resident tech expert (and I thought it would give Dean a bit of amusement at my expense) she walked me through the process of creation and linking all the horrible techy stuff properly. One of the amusing things about my new reality is I can pass off almost everything to my motley collection of fic contacts as 'story research,' and no one blinks an eye. After all, at some point I'll be stuck writing it won't I? So, it's not even lying.

Right, now I've got the house keeping stuff out of the way I shall tell you of the bemusing reality of my Wednesdays for the next month or so, my parenting gig, always a circus at the best of times, also now involves attending half day feeding course' sessions. Mr 2 was born with tongue ties and lip ties and while he had surgery to fix it, still has real eating delays and issues.

Now the powers that be have decided, that what we need to fix this issue, is not physio or perhaps a doctor to make sure the wee darlin is bolted together correctly; but a 'feeding course' entitled "fun with food."

This course (now that the two-half-day parent education sessions are complete -my head hurts a little from all the info-) continues with me and a bunch of other parents and kids doing food therapy in 5 more intensive sessions.

It seems to involve a lot of playing with food in a most unseemly manner, and as the parent I get to lead the charge ... smearing chickpea purée on my nose and making mustaches out of bits of Apple *sour look* shoot me now! (-fake wide eyed look of panic- "actually please don't Mr Winchester's :-p oh come on, lighten up!)

I do admit that the whole thing seems rather insane, all these adults being and doing weird things with food and saying things like "I can put the brown stick on my nose" "You can put the brown stick on your nose too" (because psycho-babble states we should never ask if someone can do something, we should tell them that they can do it, yay! Piffttt mutter grump whatever) ..."I can tap the brown stick on my teeth" "I can balance the brown stick on my head, tada!" "I can kiss the brown stick"... in falsely happy singsong tones. The nutcase philosophy also states we must not tell the children what the food is but instead must describe it. In this case the answer to question what's brown and sticky is "a pretzel" but shhhh don't tell the kids that.

I'm not completely convinced by the whole thing, but I'll be honest enough to admit it's probably got more to do with my ruffled dignity gahhhhh.

It is sort of nice to get to know some other parents with similar struggles and at least I'm not alone in my mortification.

Anyway, stay safe out there, pretty please.

Your reluctant stalker, chronicler or whatever

MC2"

…..

Michele read through her email asking herself why she was still sending emails full of her silly insignificant blathering's to a couple of kick ass, save the world, monster hunters? It was beyond stupid... and yet... Like the little drummer boy in the Christmas carol it was what she had to give.

There were other levels to it as well.

In a hostage situation, it was important for continued survival to make your captors see you as a human being with a life, people who cared about you and needed you to come home. Not that she was actually the Winchesters hostage, but she was ransom to their silence about her existence with the Supernatural. She was pretty sure Dean didn't find her hugely likable, and he was the one with an angel for a best friend. Not that stupid stories would win him over… maybe it was time to ask Peaches if it was possible to send pie in America?

Michele felt determined it must be possible to be a prophet and scribe or psychic demon blood receptacle or whatever the heck she was supposed to be and still be ...'normal.' Maybe it was hanging with her autistic wonder, normal had a different meaning, normal simply meant fitting in enough that people didn't point and stare. No one was really normal, Normal was just a post-it-note people stuck on others because they couldn't see what was going on under the surface.

Conversely maybe drivelling emails could be considered therapy for Winchesters, what was the point of putting their life on the line daily for other people to have normal lives if they lost touch with what normal lives looked like. Wasn't that part of why Sam had kept emailing her? Dean, with his pie and his car and a million other little things seemed to have that down most of the time, but Sam being more intense and less likely to get distracted by the little things, he possibly needed reminders.

All she really knew was, that a day ago, before Winchesters and their whole world we're dropped on her head. She was the person who sent slightly humorous emails to people about her small little life and made them smile.

She was that same person, right?

Just a bit more mentally bruised and battered, maybe with a few newly acknowledged special features that weren't in the advertising material.

But she was still her.

She could do this, you only drowned if you stopped paddling, right?


	35. Chapter 35 Man in the mirror

**Chapter 35**

"Hi Sam, you're up late."

"You're not usually on line at this time either... is everything ok?"

"Yes Sam -rolls eyes- hubby's working late so I'm not having my usual Matilda issues."

"Matilda issues?"

"It's a book by Roald Dahl, Matilda is a kid with a brain, who likes books, her family forces her to watch TV... Matilda's also telekinetic, come to think of it. But that's neither here nor there. The point is, with hubby working late tonight and all the kidlets are in bed, I don't have to watch some series on Netflix to keep hubby happy so I am free to spend time with words instead. Is your brother reading over your shoulder Sam?"

"No Deans out getting food.

I actually have read Matilda Michele, a long time ago. I was just wondering if you had any other... talents I should know about."

"Sorry to disappoint you Sam, no telekinesis -rueful grin- just the whole unofficial biographer thing, for which I'm really sorry by the way."

"It's not exactly your fault."

"Still it sucks for you and I know you hate it... So, SORRY."

"Maybe I should be saying sorry to. Finding out like that..."

"The truth is always better, even if it makes your head explode. You know the worst part about this?"

"I really couldn't guess."

"Deciding between protecting the people I care about and not telling them the truth. Secrets and lies, I'm not very good with them… I'm struggling with it"

"It sort of comes with the territory."

"Maybe..."

"There are no maybes, people that believe in monsters, or that characters from books are real, that they are having visions of the future… typically those people get medicated and locked up."

"This could still be an elaborate joke -looks around hopefully for hidden camera- then thinks possibly hidden cameras in the bedroom might disturb me more than the idea of real monsters."

"Uh."

"Laughs, you know I keep forgetting you're not a girl still Sammy. You're ... like three people in my head. Sam the trinity three in one.  
Sam…. by my non-arcane calculations, no matter where exactly you are in America tonight, it's very late there."

"Yes, it is."

"Is your brother back yet? How long does it take to get burgers in the dead of night?"

"Apparently more than 4 hours. I tried calling him, just got his answer phone. I'm assuming he's gotten distracted."

"And now I'm giving thanks to God for the Winchester brother I'm stuck with."

"By God you mean Chuck?"

"-Humourless laugh- Well Sam I'll be honest there are aspects of 'this' that my brain seems incapable of processing, the whole God is Chuck thing. I'm trying hard here. But my brain keeps freezing and requiring a reboot when I try pondering the ramifications of that. I do seem to remember Chuck not enjoying writing Deans sexscapades, which could be proof positive that God is not cruel -To me at any rate. For our readers, it probably causes great sadness.  
If and when this makes it into TTYH imagine all the sad little fic readers wishing they were watching Dean right now, instead of us talking."

"You DO have an evil streak. haha"

"Who me? -grin- I'm an innocent little hobbit Sammy. -Yawn- A-n-d because I'm a hobbit and not a rough tough monster hunter it's time I got some sleep. You really should sleep too; did you eat tonight?"

"Yes, I ate. Are you channelling Dean?"

"I am a mother Sam. It's my factory setting, unwanted nagging about eating and sleeping. I guess it makes sense you think I sound like Dean, he mothers 'like a boss' as they say.  
Anyway, get some sleep, your Tom Cat will come home when he's ready I'm sure and he'll only call you a girl for waiting up for him."

"You are probably right.  
Just don't... can you not… be on his case about -being him.  
He actually hasn't 'tom catted' recently.  
Don't tell him, but I sort of wish he would. I... worry about him."

"I know you do Sam, you aren't alone in worrying about Winchesters, -ruffles his hair- get some sleep young man."

….

Dean Winchester stood before the mirror his face wet with water ?or tears?

"Okay." He took a breath in and sniffed, then met his own eyes.

"My name is Dean Winchester." He told himself, staring into his own eyes in the mirror as if trying to make someone believe him.

"Sam is my brother."

"Uh," his eyes flicked back and forth as if he'd forgotten a line "Mary Winchester is my mom."

"And Cast-" he faltered and again his eyes flicked sideways, searching.

"Cas is my best friend." He finished and smiled at himself in the mirror, then his smile cracked and his lips trembled. For a second a deeply vulnerable look of confusion and helplessness crossed the handsome face. Taking a deep shuddering breath of despair Dean looked away from his reflection, as if even he couldn't stand what was written on the face before him.

Michele woke with a whimper feeling cold and bereft, smudging away the trail of blood flowing from her nose with the back of her hand. Slipping out of bed she walked through the dark house. Curling on the couch she cradled her phone against her chest. Not realising she was rocking back and forth slightly, like she did on those nights when she held her sick child in her arms unable to do anything other than hold him and wait for day. Tears gathered and slowly tracked down her cheeks in silence.

There was a hollow gulf inside her that filled with guilt.

That man wasn't the brash cocky guy she'd read about in the Supernatural books. That guy wasn't even the man she'd witnessed, half dead, held captive in Montauk.

But that man was Dean Winchester, the man she'd flippantly called her hero.

That man was Dean Winchester, whom she'd been a bitch to the first, and only time she'd communicated with him.

Lost and terrified, staring into the mirror trying to convince himself who he was.

No one should ever be that lost and alone. Not for the first-time, Michele felt totally helpless and useless to fix things beyond her control. Recalling her talk with Sam the night before, Michele wondered if her and Sam needed to have a real discussion 'regarding Dean.'

...

Sam Winchester sat at the small table in the motel room, alone. Trying not to worry about his brother, and failing. Trying not to be irritated with his brother, and failing.

When his phone finally rang, it came up with an unknown caller.

"Hello?" He queried

"Sam?" Deans voice filled him with relief and irritation in equal measure.

"Dude," Sam rocked back in his chair letting his irritation drive "where the hell have you been?"

"I'm not really sure about that." Deans voice seemed uncertain.

"You..." reeling back in his irritation, Sam stopped himself. "Well, where are you now?"

"I'm not real sure about that either. I, um..." Dean paused and seemed to be searching, a truck horn blared in the background "Oh. Haha. I'm starvin'. How you feel about waffles?" Dean sounded much more like himself, but wasn't making much sense.

Sam spluttered "W- what?"

"Dumb question. Right. What psycho doesn't love waffles? I mean, they're fluffy. You got the little pockets full of syrup. You just cover 'em in whipped cream. Am I right? Anyway, meet me at Waldos', okay?" Dean rambled cheerfully.

"Hey ... M-." Sam sighed as his brother hung up in his ear.

…..

Sam walked into Waldos' and scoped the restaurant for his brother.

He caught sight of Dean, stuffing his face with single minded determination.

Both irritated and glad to see his brother back to something more usual, he reminded himself how last night he'd asked Michele go easy on his brother for being...himself. And decide to react with humour instead of irritation.

Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets and smiled indulgently as he wandered over.

Dean looked round at him "Oh. Hey, did you bring any, um..." Dean pointed at his head and winced.

Sam grinned and slid into the booth beside his brother grabbing the bottle of pills out of his pocket he shook them before passing them over to his brother's eager hands.

"Y-es."

"Sounded like you could use it."

"Oh, man."

"Rough night?"

"Rough morning." Dean chuckled and downed some pills.

"W-what happened? I mean, you just went out to get some food."

"I don't know."

"What does that mean?" Sam frowned at his brother.

"I-I guess I blacked out." Sam looked heavenwards but couldn't hold back his amused smile "And judging from this hangover, it was epic."

"Well, I tried to call you." Sam said pointedly, but still with amusement.

"Um... Oh." Dean held up his phone, with a very smashed screen, before tossing it back onto the table "N-ot sure how that happened."

Sam huffed "Great. All right, well, I'll text Mom, make sure she knows to get ahold of me in case of an emergency. And Cas, in case he tracks down Kelly."

Dean looked up from his waffles at his brother, eyes narrowed lips pursed in puzzlement, shook his head slightly.

"The mother of Lucifer's love child?" Sam reminded him with a frown.

"Right. Right. Yes, the Devil baby mama drama." Dean laughed to himself "Say that five times fast. Devil baby mama drama." In his Elvis voice.

"All right, Dean, you know, uh," Sam search for the right words "you've had a good run, but maybe let's pump the brakes a little bit. I mean, you're not 20 anymore."

Dean gave him the expected unimpressed look.

"Okay, one, the Rat Pack partied till the day they died. And B, I can still kick your ass." Dean shoved a forkful of waffle into his mouth for emphasis.

Sam scoffed and nodded, totally unconvinced.

"Mm. Got a man who needs some waffles down here." Because of course, Dean was going to try and stuff him with food.

"Oh, no. I'm - I'm fine. I'm..."

"You can just take these if you want." Dean shoved his second order of waffles at Sam.

"No, Dean. Look, the morgue opens in, like, 10 minutes."

"The morgue?" Dean queried looking puzzled again.

"The autopsy results. Are you still drunk?"

"I don't think so." Dean muttered.

Sam leaned towards his brother and sniffed, his brother gave him a warning look "All right, our... our case Mm. Dead guy, throat stuffed full of money. Any of this ring any bells?"

"Right, yes. Right. Um...the accountant. Barry Gilman."

"Right. Right."

"Uh, and you think he got his ticket punched by a demon."

"Maybe."

"Okay, but when we went over to his place yesterday, we got a whole bunch of jack and a little bit of squat. There was no hex bags, no EMF, no sulphur, which means no case."

"Yeah, but if it's not a case, then what is it?"

"I don't know. Death by money? You know, maybe the guy got whacked by, uh, some mob dude with an ironic sense of humour."

Sam chuckled. "All right. Well, I'm gonna go scope out the body. If you wanna spend some more alone time with, uh, your waffles... All right. Have fun."

"Fine, hold up."

"D-id you pay?" Sam chided his brother.

"Oops, no. Right."

"You got it?"

I got it." Dean tossed money on the table.

A young woman walked up behind Dean, she smiled nervously "Hi."

"Hi." Dean grinned and shot his brother a smile and exchanged raised eyebrows with Sam, before looking back at the girl "And who are you?" He rumbled.

The woman looked shocked and annoyed then slapped Dean and marched off.

The woman's friends laughed behind them.

"Yep. Epic night!" Dean announced and turned on his heel and walked out.


	36. Chapter 36 Choices (regarding Dean)

**Chapter 36**

Sam sighed, Barry Gilman the accountant had been hexed by a witch, stuffing him so full of cash that he had choked on it.

The night before, Dean had run into that witch at the local bar, after ordering burgers, riding a mechanical bull and generally "being himself." Dean being Dean he had also recognised the witch from one of the photos on Barry's wall and chased him into the woods.

Apparently then the witch had cursed Dean with some sort of progressive memory loss curse.

At first labelling things with post-it-notes had been sort of funny. (A tribute to the movie memento.)

Dean had been sort of funny as well, like a little kid, full of wonder at the details of their life, as if it was some adventure story... or maybe a work of fiction come to life. There had been moments when Sam had actively envied his brother, the weight seemed to have fallen from his shoulders, leaving him free.

Rowena's advice, to undo the curse, kill the witch. It didn't seem too hard. A job they were getting to anyway.

But the witch was already dead. The men of letters files had nothing and Sam was at a loss.

More than that, the curse was progressing and Sam could see parts of Dean slipping away before his eyes.  
All he could hope was that Rowena would recognise the glyph they'd found in the woods, that somehow she could give them a clue on how to break the curse.  
Sending off the message, Sam swallowed and glanced worriedly at his brother, noting the slump to Deans shoulders, then back at the laptop.

There was an email from Michele waiting. Distraction.

"We've got mail Dean"

Dean looked up and offered him a smile. As if Sam had given him a gift.

Sam cleared his throat and began reading

 _"Hello and how are my two most favourite boys in all of America?"_

"It's an email from Mom?" Dean asked, with the most heart breakingly hopeful smile.

Sam opened his mouth to correct his brother, then suddenly, he just didn't have the heart to tell Dean the email was from a stranger on the other side of the world, that they hadn't heard from their mother for days (Dean'd demanded they didn't tell her or Cas about the curse, not that they'd told Michele anything either… and it appeared she was in the dark) but even so, their Mom wasn't given to sending emails like this one.

Dean wandered over, one hand resting on his little brother's shoulder reading the words for himself and listening to his brother read at the same time.

 _"I find myself awake tonight and thinking of you both, of the things you have done and what good men you both are. Dean Winchester, that statement is true whether you believe me or not, and Sam don't roll your eyes._

 _Of all people on earth right now, I would know, wouldn't I? -Half smile- I know you boys aren't given to 'chick flick' moments, but let's face it I'm a chick and a mother, so I'll write what I want, and if you read it, that's up to you."_

Sam rubbed his hand over his eyes, aware of the gulf between 'his' Dean and the one leaning against his shoulder. By now 'his' Dean would have made a snarky comment or moved away, uncomfortable with the emotion and continued contact. Briefly, he allowed himself to lay his hand over Deans on his shoulder. Soaking up the warmth in his brothers calloused hand. Swallowing past a jumble of emotions, he cleared his throat and continued reading.

 _"Life has so often given you lemons, but somehow you manage to make not just lemonade but_ _Limoncello, (which is something I had to look up, it's an Italian lemon liquor, in this world one thing is certain, if it's not poisonous, someone with enough drive will make alcohol out of it. *grin*)_

 _Not only that, somehow you use it to save the world. Not figuratively but in actual fact. Well ok, usage of lemon products is figurative... But the saving the world is and was real._

 _You are quite literally the reason the sun shines. So, look up at it once in a while and remember that and be proud... ok? Maybe not everyone knows, but I do. So, for all the people that don't know, on their behalf… I want to say you boys are amazing and Thank You._

 _M"_

Sam cleared his throat and looked back across his shoulder at his brothers face. For a second Dean seemed to stand straighter, a glow to his face.  
Then, his eyes went unfocused, again, as the curse took a firmer grip of his mind. He let go of his brothers shoulder and wandered away across the room.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes, an ache filling his chest. Stupid emails were all very well, but they weren't going to help, no matter how well intentioned.

Sam opened the photo of the dead witch again, as much to stare at the dead man and hope he suffered, as to look for clues.

...

Dean wandered back into the room from the bathroom catching sight of the computer screen and the photo of the dead witch.

"Is that a dead guy?" He asked sounding slightly astonished.

"Yeah."

"Whoa! Never seen a dead guy before." Dean enthused leaning against the door jamb behind his brother.

Sam chuckled humourlessly "Uh, yeah, you have. Trust me." he winced and sighed.

There was a knock at the door. Dean bounded over to answer it, no caution at all.

"Hey! No, D-Dean, wait a second." Sam cautioned leaping to his feet, drawing his gun. But Dean had already opened it.

There stood Rowena.

Dean looked at Rowena without recognition, shot his brother a querying look.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Spell's progressed, I see." Rowena commented as she invited herself in.

"I wanted Intel, Rowena, not a house call." Sam fumed

"Oh, I have a feeling you'll come to thank me." Rowena told Sam mildly, turning to Dean and began to examine him.

Dean looked back at her happily "Mm, your hair, it's all so ... bouncy." He chirped.

"Why, thank you. Mm-hmm." She purred "Do we have to fix him?" She asked shooting Sam an amused half pleading look.

"Rowena." Sam grated in warning.

"Samuel." She re-joined mildly.

"Those glyphs you found are an archaic form of Celtic. Ogham Chraobh. The Druids used it in their rituals, calling it the "Language of the Trees."

"Wait, wait. Now the trees are talkin'?" Dean asked, seriously. Rowena gave him an amused contemptuous look. Suddenly Sam was mortified on his brother's behalf.

"Uh, Dean, do you remember HBO?"

"Um..."

"Cinemax?"

"Skinemax." Dean grinned like a five-year-old.

"Great. All right, come here. We're just gonna. We're gonna sit you down right here." He pushed him onto the bed and searched for the remote "And, uh, yeah, go ahead. Um..."

"Like live Skinemax or..." Dean queried.

Sam turned the TV on.

"Hey!" Dean chortled happily, his eyes lighting up at the kids cartoon.

"Perfect." He patted his brothers shoulder "Stay there."

"Come here." He beckoned Rowena towards the laptop.

"There's only one family of witches versed in this kind of magic. I thought them all dead for years, but when I saw those glyphs..."

"Is this one of 'em?" Sam asked, showing Rowena the photo of the dead witch.

"Gideon Loughlin." Rowena spat the name.

"Did you know him?"

"A bit." Rowena stated with a mild shrug.

"All right, tell me about this family."

"A hundred years ago, the Loughlins came over from the Old World and turned a small town on the Mississippi Delta into their own personal fiefdom. Their children - Gideon, Boyd, and Catriona - were like three rotten little peas in a pod. The family possessed a powerful spell book, a tome of Druidic magic called the Black Grimoire. Witches came from around the world to live with them and study its secrets... for a price."

"So, what happened to 'em?"

"Hunters happened." Rowena sounded almost glad. "Of course, I'd heard rumours one or two survived, stealing away with their book, but I-I dismissed them as gossip."

From the bed, Dean laughed at something infantile on the cartoon. Looked up, he grinned at them both, totally oblivious to the weight of the situation. Like a child. Sam and Rowena shared a look and Sam sighed.

"With Gideon dead, if you want to break the curse on your brother, we need to find that book."

"Wait a second. So, _you_ can't break it?"

"Oh, of course I _could_ , but witchcraft this complex would take _time_ , more than Dean's got." They both looked over at Dean again. "He's already begun to forget himself, everyone he's ever known, ever loved. _Even you_. Soon he'll forget how to speak, how to swallow, and then... Dean Winchester's going to die."

"Sucks for that guy." Dean commented from his seat on the bed.

Sam tasted despair.

…..

Michele let out a strangled cry and fell to her knees, on the kitchen floor.

Pain, a blinding spike lancing her skull and blinding her eyes.

A quick deadly shuffle of images.

Herself, face set and stubborn, a blank Skype dialog box.

The redheaded witch, Rowena pinned to the wall, face battered and bloody. Body twisted gruesomely. Impaled with hundreds of shards of broken mirror, her hair nearly as red as the blood that had drained from her, with her life.

Sam's body tied to a chair also drained of blood, covered in runes… and achingly dead, while a man and a woman stood chanting over a very dead looking man, that suddenly drew breath and sat up with a self-satisfied smile.

Dean, eyes blank, mindless and absent, lying in the dirt by his beloved impala, taking a last rattling breath and then, just no more... Dead.

Again, an image of herself doing nothing. The Skype dialogue box empty of words.

Then, words. Filling a screen. A story finished. Completion and release... Freedom! The end.

An image of herself, much older with her arms round a young woman in a wedding dress and green eyed young man dressed in a tuxedo. Her precious son's wedding day. Her husband, daughters and youngest son all laughing and glowing with happiness.

Blood pattered, thick and red onto the mottled linoleum between her hands as Michele rocked back onto her knees. Dazed horrified and confused by the images.

Sam, Dean and Rowena, Dead?

No!

And yet... the vision seemed to indicate she'd be free... that there could be a happily ever after, for her…

Hard on the heels, a second series of images caught her unprepared.

An unbelievably vivid vision of her phones clock, the time indelibly etched into her mind.

Her fingers typing, filling a Skype dialog box with words, issuing instructions.

Rowena sitting at the laptop keyboard on the other end.

A pile of post-it notes in Rowena handwriting.

Dean waking up alone in the impala, post-it notes on the side window and windscreen, in the trunk, on the grenade launcher, witch killing bullets and gun.

Then, the sound of shots fired.

Sam pacing at the bottom of a flight of stairs, a red hued flash, then Dean and Rowena walking down the stairs.

A look of horror on Sam's face, that melted into a grudging smile.

The sound of both Winchester boys laughing. Alive.

An image of blood on her hands, on the floor, everywhere. Her son calling for her, muffled, distorted and far off.

Then, blackness.

The two series of visions came again and again faster and faster.

The message was clear.

 **Choose**.

You have and out. But to get it, Sam and Dean Winchester die.

Or you can intervene, break cover… to a witch, tell her what to do and Sam and Dean Winchester will live. _For now_ , but there's no promises of how this will end for you.

Michele looked at the clock. She had two hours to decide.


	37. Chapter 37 Like sands thru an hourglass

**Chapter 37**

Sam walked out of the bathroom leaving his brother alone behind him.

He had spent the past 20 minutes telling his brother his life story, telling his brother who he was.

Like a child trying to hold back the tide with his bare hands, trying to save his sandcastle. He could feel his brother slipping away through his fingers and nothing he could do would hold him together.

He felt beyond helpless and useless.

The hardest thing he had ever had to do was walk away from Dean, to focus on trying fix this and do what needed to be done, instead of fruitlessly clinging to Dean and trying to hold what was left of him together with sheer force of will. Telling him over and over who he was and how much he MEANT to his little brother.

To risk what was left of his brother ... falling away into nothingness like sands through an hour glass. To bet those moments he had left with the most important person in his life against getting a book from a bunch of witches.

"How is he?" Rowena enquired, the picture of overflowing concern as he stepped through the bathroom door.

There was a gulf inside Sam that was incrementally filling with despair and anger.

"Like you care." Sam rounded on her, his anger finding a target in the witch, who had, in the past tried to kill them both.

"Oh." Rowena gasped, maybe a trifle theatrically. But still, maybe there was an echo of hurt in there as well, Sam didn't have the emotional reserves just then to discern.

Sam couldn't deny she was here, for whatever reason she was here, helping.

He ached to have Cas here, his Dad or Bobby back, to have someone he could truly trust, not a fickle witch.

Sam exhaled, sitting down on the bed and running a weary hand over his face.

Suddenly, he felt unbearably lonely in that moment. Needing to express the agony inside to someone, even if it was Rowena.

"You know, I've seen my brother die, but watching him become... not him..." Sam took a deep breath, in and out "This might actually be worse..."

 _From the bathroom, he faintly heard Deans voice "My name is Dean Winchester... Sam is my brother. Mary Winchester is my mother... Cast... Cas is my best friend."_

God, he shouldn't let Rowena in like this, he couldn't trust her. Sam struggled to shore up his defences.

"We need to find that grimoire." Rowena said fiercely.

Sam looked up at Rowena winced and shook his head.

"Of course. Of course." He let out a huff of frustration, rubbing the back of his head "T-hat's your angle, isn't it?" He flared

"Oh."

"Oh, come on, Rowena. A powerful spell book shows up and all of a sudden, you're here to help? Altruism isn't exactly your style."

Rowena opened her mouth, shrugged and gave Sam a coy smile "True. Also, it never hurts to have a Winchester owe you one."

"Gideon Loughlin's address was in his accountant's file. If the book is there, I'll find it." Sam said grabbing his jacket, deciding on action.

"Of course, you'll need me there to help -"

"No, no, you're staying here with Dean."

"I most _certainly_ am not."

"Well, he can't come with me, and I'm not leaving him alone. And I obviously don't trust you."

" _Well, obviously_..."  
"The Black Grimoire's written in ancient Druid. How do you propose to find a proper spell without me there to -"

"Well, you said a few of the Loughlins survived, right? That was the rumour?"

"So', you expect one of them to - to what? Translate their ancient super-secret family spell book for you? You just killed their _brother_. They'd sooner use your skin as an outfit."

Sam pulled out his gun full of witch killing bullets with a grim smile and held it up.

"They can try." He said and walked out the door.

...

"Stop touching everything." Rowena snapped at Dean and slapped his hand, as he fiddled, yet again, with the spell components she had laid out.

"Sorry." He muttered as he turned away. Then, moments later as he turned back, again he reached out to touch, like Fergus had as a toddler

"Ugh. Here." She handed him a voodoo doll and some pins "Play with this, ... and I'll tell you a story.

"Oh good"

"Once," Rowena began in a Storytime for children voice "a _beautiful_ witch was, again, run out of her homeland" Dean sat poking at the doll "by those pompous, self-righteous, murderous hooligans." Dean looked across at her.

"You know them as The British Men of Letters." She informed him, Dean gave her a small grin and a nod, to indicate he'd heard; then gave a little head shake showing no memory of the people in question.

"She sought refuge with a family of witches. All she wanted was a roof over her head and a safe place to hone her magic. Yet, they threw her out like... like common trash. Said she wasn't up to snuff."

Dean turned and looked at her "Oh, these witches sound like dicks." Rowena smiled "I think you got plenty of snuff."

Rowena laughed and looked down pleased, then blinked at Dean, suddenly remembering the curse and that his words meant less than nothing.

"You can really remember nothing, can you?" She said in a cynical tone, Deans mouth quirked in response.

"What a gift not to recall the things you've done." Rowena enthused.

"What have I done?" He asked with a slightly goofy smile.

"Oh, you're a killer, Dean Winchester." She informed him in a subtle purr.

Dean frowned and his face crumpled "Wait, I ... I kill people?"

"Scores." She informed him maliciously, he looked away like a hurt child.

A tiny piece of her rebelled at the cruelty.

"But...but... though you may be a stubborn pain in the arse with the manners of a Neanderthal and the dining habits of a toddler, everything you've done, you've done..." she let out a disgusted sigh "for the greater good."

"Oh, and _that's_ supposed to make it okay?" Dean asked not mollified.

Rowena scoffed "I wouldn't know. You help those other than yourself. But _me?"_ She walked around and sat next to him _. "_ I've done horrible things, and I told myself it was fine. It was the price of power. And power's what matters, right?" "Then I met God and his sister. The two most powerful beings in the universe, wasting it on squabbling with each other. I thought, if - if they can't be happy, or at least satisfied, how can there be any hope for me?" Deans face filled with confusion, his eyes flicking back and forth trying to take in her words.

"Why are you telling me this?" He asked at last.

Rowena gave him a slightly malicious smile "Because, I know you won't remember." She informed him and tapped his nose.

The cell phone rang.

"You're in?" Queried Rowena

"S-hh. Yeah, I'm in." Sam's voice informed her.

"All right. As soon as I get the translation, _you cast the spell."_

…

"This gun is full of witch-killing bullets." Sam's voice announced. " _So why don't you go to your grimoire and tell me how to break the memory spell?"_

"I told him you'd come." A female voice responded, "Boyd wanted to go after you," she continued "but I said, "Why bother?" You're hunters. You'll hunt us down, right at our doorstep. Hot and... fresh like pizza."

"I'm not asking you again." Sam's voice was full of deadly threat

 _"Abi!"_

There was a sound of an impact and things falling. Sam groaned.

 _"Age nunc intellectum._ _Age nunc intellectum atque voluntatem omnem meam."_

Through the phone there was a high-pitched ringing sound and the woman laughed in evil amusement…. and then there was screaming.

"Sam?" Dean cried in horror as the phone cut out.

...

Less than a moment later Rowena was collecting her spell fixings, she looked across at Dean, already the memory of his brothers scream had been washed away. She could walk away and no one would even know. And yet...

From the table on the other side of the room there was a peal of sound from the laptop. Dean wandered towards it.

"Lady do you know anyone called Ro-wee-na, or Dean" Dean queried "the" Dean waved his hand "thing wants em."

Frowning, Rowena crossed the room and looked at the screen

"Rowena! Dean this is important, you need to show the lady with the red hair this, please! If you don't the Loughlins are going to kill you ALL. I can help, I know a way for all of you to live, you just have to do as I say."

"Who is this HobbitualPsychik?" Rowena asked looking at Dean, not really expecting a reply. Dean frowned, then a smile lit his face.

"She's our Mom." He informed her a touch questioningly.

"I can see the future" the screen proclaimed.

"Rowena all I'm asking you to do is write the following notes, put Dean and them in the impala and then do what you are going to do anyway. Try to help Sam and get that book. My way you get what you want. You all live. Please!"

For a moment, Rowena looked at the screen undecided, she had always known both Winchester boys had a certain level of untapped talent, she'd seen it in action often enough and almost smelt it on their skin when they were close.

They were legacy Men of Letters after all.

How else did they think they managed to do spell work?!

Not that the idiotic oh so moral Winchesters would ever use or harness their god given talents for more than hunting monsters and saving damsels in distress.

….A mother who had returned from the dead ... with the ability to see the future.

It made sense.

"What am I supposed to do?" Rowena replied picking up a pen.

...

Dean woke in the impala, in front of him was a note taped to the windscreen. Pulling it off he read the words written out load "Your brothers been kidnapped by a witch. I found your stupid car and left you here."

"Stupid?!" Dean queried looking around "okay..." Dean went to get out of the impala. Only to be confronted by a note on the side window "Stay." Dean looked over his shoulder and shifted uncomfortably, he needed to follow orders. His eyes were drawn to the house.

Again, he looked at the note on the side window, "Stay" this time he pulled it off, read it again with a grunt. Just about to crumple it up, he saw words on the back. "Go to the trunk and open it."

Dean exited the car and opened the trunk.

Another note greeted him "Open me."

Dean followed orders and opened the compartment. He was greeted with the mother lode of weapons "Whoa!" He breathed in happy amazement.

His green eyes lit on the grenade launcher hungrily, but there was a note that said "NO!"

Two other things had notes "WITCH KILLING BULLETS" on a box of ammo and "THIS GUN" on an ivory handled gun.

Dean pulled the gun and the ammo out of the trunk loading the gun purely by muscle memory. He read the note he still had in his hand. "Your brothers been kidnapped by a witch..."

...

Dean walked into the room, a red headed woman was pinned to the wall, her face bloody. A shard or mirror was imbedded in the wall by the frightened woman's face.

The other woman, a blonde, held another shard of broken mirror ready to throw it.

Dean cocked the gun and both women looked at him, the redhead with relief, the blonde with contempt.

"A gun?" She tutted "do you really think that's going to work on u..."

Dean held up the note "WITCH KILLING BULLETS" she gave him a half smile and turned back to throw the mirror shard at the redhead.

Dean pulled the trigger and the witch fell dead, the redhead slid to the floor.

A doorway at the top of the stairs flew open and a man pursued another man down the stairs.

Both men stopped at the sight of Dean at the foot with a gun pointed at them.

Deans gun wavered between the two men, then aimed at the larger of the two who had been doing the chasing.

The man with the floppy hair gave him an incredulous look and raised his hands.

"No, no, no. Brother" he pointed at himself. "Witch." He pointed at the man below him on the stairs.

Dean shot the witch through the heart.

The floppy haired man, his brother, took a few gasping breaths and slumped against the banister in relief.

Dean shot him a goofy smile and a thumbs-up.

...

Sam stood at the base of the stair, waiting and pacing.

There was an incantation and a red hued flash.

Rowena walked down the stairs, the grimoire cradled against her chest, followed by his brother

"Hey. Is that it? Is - is it done?" Sam asked nervously.

"Who's this hippie?" Dean asked, his face blank without recollection.

Sam's face crumpled, he raised his arms in a helplessness, wanting to cry, wanting to beg Rowena to somehow bring his brother back.

Then Dean gave a wheezing chuckle and he looked at Rowena, they both broke into smiles.

"Look at his face." Dean rumbled "Oh! Kind of like the time when I ate all your Halloween candy. You remember that? Classic."

Sam took a few huffing breaths "Not funny." He grated, a flinching smile of relief broke over his face.


	38. Chapter 38 Luck has nothing 2 do with it

**Chapter 38**

Michele sighed tucking her hair back behind her ears, trying to concentrate on the conversation she was supposed to be having with her sons teacher, while her insides constricted and twisted with anxiety.

She was worried, worried about two men, and a bloody witch on the other side of the world. Actually she was sort of hoping the witch wasn't bloody, even if witches were bad, evil and this ones son was the king of hell.

She had made her choice, done what she could or should... but now she could do nothing but wait, wonder and worry.

Was it enough? Were they okay?

Damn, it was as bad or worse than all the times she had sat on tenderhooks in the waiting rooms or at home, waiting for word on operations, injuries or test results for her family members; or for a husband to come home, hours past the defined point of 'late,' whose cellphone didn't answer.

Being a wife and mother was loaded with those moments. To care was to worry... often fruitlessly and usually unadmitted or acknowledged.

It would probably help if she knew for certain if she had a right to worry about Winchesters.

She wasn't really part of their world, they had been thrust upon each other by circumstances. The ficwriters cry "Not mine" surely still applied, maybe more so now that she knew they weren't fictional characters.

She doubted very much if the Winchester brother's would appreciate her worrying about them, especially Dean.

To top it off she really didn't feel like she had any right to bother them by asking if they were okay.

Even if they were perfectly fine she doubted she'd hear anything anytime soon, they had bigger things to worry about - they probably always would. So she better get used to this feeling.

...

Once home, the familiar ache in her head announced that she would need to do some writing, again.

She went to it almost eagerly.

Maybe now she'd get some answers.

...

Michele stared at the Chapter irrititably, she wanted to know what was happening to Sam and Dean, if they were ok... The whole seeing the future thing was all very well, but what was the point of it, if it refused to tell her the one thing she wanted?

Instead what did she get? A chapter detailing her melt down over finding out Sam was Sam Winchester.

It was hardly complementary ... leaning sharply towards humiliating and embarrassing!

A big part of her rebelled at the thought of Sam knowing how much of a pathetic baby she was, or worse, at some point ... Dean reading it, as if she wasn't already beyond contempt to him, just for being a blasted ficwriter. But her pride wasn't any more important to the force that demanded the record, than Sam or Deans.

The pain in her skull twisted a notch higher as she dithered, a warning not to get any ideas.

Yeah, she got the message.

The Winchester gospel, fanfic edition was going to be _exactly_ what it was supposed to be or its author would pay in blood, pain and tears.

A random wondering struck her, how many times had she heard the Bible described as "God inspired and God breathed... the word of God."

Briefly she wondered if the 66 books of the bible that were said to be written by 40 different authors were produced in a similar way... Michele pushed the thoughts away and went back to work.

Tossing in a few more commas, and ignoring her own mortification, Michele posted the chapter.

...

"Michele"

Michele's heart simultaneously quieted and begun racing seeing the Skype message from Sam.

"Hi Sam... is everyone ok there."

"It's not Sam, I'm Dean." The reply came

Michele bit her lip feeling like a kid in the principals office.

"Hi Dean, are you, are you ok?"

"Got my ass handed to me by a frickin witch dude."

"Uh yeah, I sort of know some of that. Are you.. ok ...now?"

"Yeah, you do.

I'm fine, some stuffs foggy. But see the thing is Skype keeps records."

Michele suddenly felt cornered.

"Oh"

"'Oh' she says, seems we need to talk."

"We really don't Dean. I promise." The woman cringed slightly.

"Look. We can actually use this to talk. Rather than type."

Michele would have fled in blind panic if she could have, she didn't want Dean Winchester looking at her, judging her for everything she wasn't. It was only a memory of the man standing in front a mirror that kept her logged on.

"I'm not 100% sure how too, I've never done anything but type." she protested weakly "and the cat ate the webcam cord..." She told him both truthfully and evasively, staring at the smart phone in her hand knowing full well, from talking with Peaches, that her phone was quite capable of doing video chat. If she wasn't so shy about it. "Is Sam round?"

"Sam's busy, you're stuck with the degenerate Winchester brother today."

And just like that, he sliced past all her defenses. She tapped the phone icon at the top of the Skype box.

"Dean Winchester don't you dare call yourself that, you're a hero. You are one of the most selfless people I know..." she began feircely.

A deep chuckle met her words "Hello to you too." He replied amused.

"Uh." Michele suddenly found her voice give out on her.

"Cat get your tongue as well as ya webcam?"

"No, I..."

"Mum who are you talking to?" Michele flinched guiltily at the sound of her oldest sons voice.

"Uh... " Michele felt trapped between the hunter and her sons green eyes "Remember Mummys ficfriend that made her sad by telling her a fib? This is his big brother, his names Dean." She told her son quietly, hoping Dean didn't catch much of the side conversation.

"Dean, you should teach your little brother not to tell lies" her son admonished both loudly and sternly. Michele flinched wondering how the hunter would respond to being twitted by an 8 year old.

"What's your name buddy?"

"Johnny" her son replied.

"Well Johnny, you're a big brother too right? Does your little brother _always_ do what ya teach him?" Dean asked her son seriously. Michele's heart melted, while her protective instinct screamed at her to get the Winchester away from her son.

"No" her son admitted "Chris _hardly ever_ does what me and the sisters say. Mum says he's a brat and takes after Dad."

"Mebe ya Moms right, but keep tryin Sport, it's a big brother's job to try an teach his kid brother to act proper."

"You and your brother went away, you made Mum _sad_..."

 _Oh Michele had to cut this conversation short!_

"Johnny hon, you can go get yourself and Chris another biscuit. Apparently Mummy and Dean need to talk..."

"Yay!" Her son enthused then stopped mid dash "Dean, don't make my Mum sad again! You're _lucky_ she cares about you, and your brother ... _so don't be mean_!" And then her son was gone.

"Ugh I'm _sorry_ Dean, he's gone now... please don't listen to him... he's only 8... gahds that was... " she murmured embarrassed and surprised by her sons outburst.

"That was... true." Dean finished her sentence sounding thoughtful "I am lucky you give a damn, you stuck your neck out, I can see how things might've ended different. So ... thanks... an I thought you might wanna know, if you didn't already, that Rowena thinks you're our Mom... So you're good..."

"Oh. Umm..." Michele frowned puzzled " _Why_ does a witch think I'm your mother?"

"Cos Sam's a bitch n needs a lecture from ya kid 'bout not tellin lies." The hunters voice held a complicated mix of humour and irritation.

Silence lagged.

"Ya write lots, but ya don't say much, do you." Dean observed.

Michele took a breath "I'm sorta scared here Dean, and a bit tongue tied."

"Hey, we aren't gonna hurt you" There was a 'soothing the frightened witness' tone in Deans voice.

"I'm not scared you'll hurt me." Michele tried to explain "I'm scared you'll think I'm an idiot! I know you don't like me much, and I'm scared of making it worse. I'm just a silly little hobbit and you're the guys that stopped the apocalypse and saved the world. I'm not exactly up to your standards..." Michele shoved her fist against her mouth in an aborted attempt to cram the words back in.

"Hey!" The bark in Deans voice made her flinch. "First off, Hobbits kick ass, second ya may be Sammys little pen pal but I don't hate ya okay? I get you're not Becky."

"Okay... yeah umm thanks for that, I'm definitely not Becky ... _Oh-h Becky's real._.." Michele made a choking sound at the back of her throat, thinking about the implications of that.

Dean grunted "Sam was married to that pint sized shot of crazy - _briefly_." He informed her sourly.

"Poor Sam... on the plus side the little pervert survived marriage to a Winchester... that's progress isn't it, one day Sam might be able to get a dog?"

Dean laughed "Mebe Mitch."

Michele winced she hated that nickname, but she'd live with it.

"So, Dean if you're really ok and Sam... _Sam is ok isn't he?_ " She demanded suddenly suspicious.

"Sam's fine"

"And the witch isn't a mirror pincushion?"

"Rowenas fine."

"Then umm, can I go now? We have homework to do and my hellions may be gorging on biscuits as we speak. I am really glad you're okay Dean, I was… worried, ya know. I may see stuff but it's not the stuff I want to know. Tell Sam I say hi. Look after each other okay?"

"You look after those kids Mitch... and yourself."


	39. Chapter 39 Love you but don't like you

**Chapter 39**

Michele stood up from shampooing her youngest sons hair and caught herself against the bathroom wall. Turning, she examined herself in the bathroom mirror noting the dark circles under her eyes the pallor of her face and lips, pulling down her lower eye lid she studied the lack of colour there with a sinking dread.

She was getting anemic, taking iron pills and multi vitamins, eating right. None of those things were keeping up with the small incremental blood losses.

She could feel it in the exhaustion she carried all day, the moments of dizziness, how she found it harder to get enough oxygen when she was chasing her children.

What exactly was she? It was a question she couldn't fully push to the back of her mind. She'd said she didn't care and didn't want to know... but the question was, did she need to know. A small voice asked if maybe the reason why prophets were taken off into the desert by the angels had to do with a need for constant angelic healing, (or transfusions) did unaccompanied prophets eventually die from blood loss.

Sam had had head aches and nose bleeds as part of his special child thing too, but was that from the visions or the mental exorcisms? ... she couldn't remember.

Now she felt like a vouyer every time she even looked at the books, (thanks Dean) but she got it, really she did...

Which was the worse option? reading the books or asking one of the Winchester boys questions about prophets and special children? Poking at that topic with Sam seemed … insensitive.

She guessed she could ask Dean now, but was it less insensitive to ask him than his brother? The whole demon blood thing had caused an ocean of hurt between the brothers. Dredging it up was something she was loathe to do.

She'd been uncertain what the Skype friend request from impalaboy67 heralded after that civil conversation, a file of warding sigils and a terse one sided comment a few days ago that they were off to show another hunter the ropes on 'an easy case,' apparently.

It was a tiny bit amusing, Sam told her next to nothing about their work but they typed backwards and forwards semi-regularly. Dean on the other hand had spoken to her twice, but had to do it verbally (not that he had given her a chance to say anything in return) she found the guy impossible to fathom. He made her feel ordered around and barked at.

Did he know how uncomfortable communicating verbally with him made her? Was it some sort of subconscious alpha dog territorial thing?

Rinsing off her small child and wrapping him in a towel she stepped round the cat where she stood sentry on her human partner in crime - well out of the way of any nasty water. A thought quirked her mouth sideways into a lopsided smile. Maybe that was the problem, Dean was just like a Rottweiler and she, was a very small cat.

….

The baby was in bed and Michele was in the midst of rolling chocolatechip cookie dough into balls to bake when she received a Skype call from Deans account. Wiping one hand she accepted the call, thinking that today she was glad not to have to type.

She never got a chance to even say hello before Dean laid into her yelling. For maybe five seconds she thought he was yelling at her about "The Thing You Hate" that he'd read it and was thoughly and justifiably pissed at her about it.

Then, between the paint scorching swearing she registered the name "Cas."

Her mind hauled back over his words

"Why the fuck didn't you give us a heads up that the sonofabitch we were dealing with was a fucking Prince of Hell Hu?

Ya don't give a damn bout Cas cos he's just an angel, is that it?"

"Dean" his name came out as a strangled whisper, he obviously didn't hear.

"Did ya get your rocks off watchin Wally die, watchin Cas's guts rot? Sam thinks you're sooo nice but I've got your number, bitch. Mebbe your loyalties lie with the yellow eyed freaks that gave ya frickin powers"

"Dean!" She tried again louder.

"Cas is worth a million of you, if ya weren't so far away I'd put a bullet between your eyes."

Michele flinched at the threat and the vitrol in his voice.

"Dean stop! I know you're hurting, but please stop yelling at me and tell me what happened, I didn't _see_ anything. Are you and Sam okay?"

"Don't act like ya give a damn, lying bitch!"

Michele was used to keeping her cool with toddler tantrums, overwrought autism and neurotic teenages but Dean was not a child and she was _not_ his punching bag.

"Nooo!" She gave way to the anger that flared at the unfairness of all his accusations "When I had a chance to end this nightmare by letting you die, I chose to save bloody Winchesters instead. _Because I obviously don't give a damn._ So now I get to keep slowly bleeding to death, you don't have to waste any bullets, so yay for you, my kids are probably going to grow up without a mother. But hey maybe you can give them a few pointers on that." She snarled. " _Not that you care_ , because I'm just a ruddy magic 8 ball to you. Just shake me until you get the answer you want…

But I'll let you in on a secret.

 _I don't see everything_.

I don't know what happened.

And if you want to _blame_ someone for what ever the heck happened, _look elsewhere_.

 _I am sorry_ though that someone died and I _hope to God_ Cas is okay. I know you're upset but that's no excuse to take it out on me!

Now _**please**_ either stop yelling at me and _**talk to me**_ or go have some time out! Because I may love you Dean Winchester, but right now I don't like you very much."

Dean logged out.

Leaving her simmering with anger, frustration and worry.


	40. Chapter 40 Unknown voices

**Chapter 40**

Michele felt the angry tears that had been burning her eyes overflow. She dashed them away with the back of her hand. Her heart was pounding and an emotional hangover threatened. Damn being a woman sucked! Why did angry always have to equal stupid tears.

Michele looked down at the tray of cookies, roughly rolled the last few balls of dough and shoved the tray into the oven, while the echos of Deans angry words and her own seethed inside her skull. Feeling militant, she set the timer.

The vision caught her off balance when it came, she stumbled and cracked her head against the oven.

Michele found herself in a dark room, behind her was a presence that she couldn't turn to examine. In front of her was a metal lattice of bars, behind that, a dark figure was sitting at ease against the wall silhouetted but not revealed by some high up unreachable light source.

While the man appeared to be a prisoner, locked in the dark cage, he didn't seem to be overly unhappy, in fact he was singing.

 _"Oh, there was a gun that won the west, there was a man a-mong the best._

 _The fastest gun or man a-live._

 _A lightning bolt when he shot the Colt._

 _Bang!_

 _Foorrrty-five_ "

The man sniggered then chuckled

"I suppose you think that's funny." A voice from behind Michele grated, sounding more miserable than the man in the cell.

The shadowed man laughed in amusement.

"Ahh... I know that look.

Sam and Dean have got you down."

Michele blinked confused, could the man see her?! Did he know? Was this a vision at all maybe it was just a dream...

"Well - I still can't believe that you're working for the Dukes of Haphazard. Do you really think they care about you?" The sharp amused voice questioned relentlessly.

"I mean... think about it...

They kill your kind. It's in their blood. And you know... _you know_... it's only a matter of time before they come.. for y-ou." The sing song voice sliced her to the bone.

Michele sat up from the floor by the oven holding her aching head and telling herself she'd just slipped and rattled her brain, that what she had just experienced wasn't a vision. Just a moment where Deans angry words and her own fears had combined.

The weight of everything that was happening suddenly just seemed so big and awful, she felt so completely alone. Drowning.

Michele gave in, curled up and let herself sob on the kitchen floor, how had her escape from the real world been turned into _**this**_? A weight around her neck that was dragging her down to drown.

...

Sam pulled Cas's truck in behind the impala. Despite Cas's protests, that he was perfectly all right to drive, Dean had decided that Cas should not be allowed to drive back to the bunker.

Dean Winchester, as ever, was the king of double standards. Both Cas and Sam knew better than to argue, especially with Dean simmering in barely controlled anger.

Because Chuck forbid Dean process or talk about how he was actually _**feeling**_ over Cas's near death experience, or that _**Crowley**_ , of all people was the one who saved their best friend. Instead he would repress it, drown it in whiskey and generally be a prize winning jerk.

There was a tiny sliver of possibility Dean _might_ crack, that he _might_ talk but not with his brother there as an audience. So Sam felt the tiniest bit guilty for leaving Cas alone in the impala with his brother and... all of that... but mostly relieved.

Mary had taken Wallys body home to his wife, a job that both Winchester brothers were secretly glad to avoid. Even though Mary had argued Wally was _her_ friend and she knew his wife, Sam still felt the guilt tearing at him, over leaving the task to Mary.

Wally had been a good man, he had a wife, he was totally unprepared to face the mess of demons they'd walked into, hadn't known what hit him. Why hadn't they been more cautious, researched more... protected him? Of all the things he should have done... All he, Sam Winchester, _had_ done ...was watch as he died. Another tally in his list of failures.

...

Dean and Cas were already out of the impala when Sam pulled in. The set of Deans shoulders told him a lot, Sam had spent his whole life watching his older siblings every motion.

Dean had not cracked or talked, if anything Dean appeared to be a nuclear weapon looking for a place to implode.

Dean stalked around to the impalas trunk, with Cas trailing behind somehow looking apologetic. Dean opened the trunk and wrenched out the Michael lance.

"I said No Cas!

You are not examining the frickin 'artifact'! You are not touching the frickin thing! ... an as soon as I can, I'm gonna melt this sonofabitch to slag so none of us even have to look at it. Got that?! It is not "a potentially useful artifact, if it can be repaired." You are _**not**_ trying to fix it. This ... _thing_ is evil just like the sick fuck that made it."

With that Dean turned on his heel, his stride an angry march. Sam and Cas followed at a slower pace without saying a word.

Dean stormed to his room, slamming the door. There was a sound like something (the Michael lance) being hurled across the room and hitting the wall and clattering to the floor. Sam flinched. Cas looked across at Sam as they passed the door with the number 11 on it.

Cas paused momentarily "I simply suggested..." Cas began

"I know man." Sam commiserated and patted his angel friend's shoulder drawing him past the door.

"Deans... Dean, and that was... too ... close. He may not say it, but uh ... he was scared. We both were. ..." Sam cleared his throat against the emotion and clapped Cas on the back.

"I admit, I also, experienced a heightened level of fear." Cas's mouth pulled to one side uncomfortably. Cas tilted his head slightly "Ramiel said it was a long time since he had last seen an angel" Cas mused "there was a rumour in the ranks, many years ago... that an elite angelic force captured Ramiel Prince of Hell -briefly- I am not inclined to believe they did, though many strong warriors died. A prince of Hell is not to be trifled with. That any of us survived that altercation. It is a miracle Sam... nearly as great a miracle as Crowley deciding to assist us. Assist Me." Cas corrected himself looking bemused.

"I'm sure Crowley had an angle Cas, he always does." Sam comforted his friend.

...

The sound of yelling came from Deans room behind them. Cas and Sam exchanged a look moving back towards Deans door.

"Did the bunkers warding fail?" Sam queried perplexed.

"The warding is intact... there is no one, nothing, in the room with Dean."

The yelling continued for a few more minutes, then Deans door slammed open and Dean stormed out.

"I need a drink." Dean informed his brother and friend darkly putting on his jacket and heading back to the garage.

"Dean... What? Did ... Mom call?" Sam followed after his brother and Cas followed after Sam.

"That" Dean snarled and gestured back at his room "that was definitely **not** _our_ Mom."

"Wait up Dean, we'll come with." Sam offered.

Dean sighed and momentarily looked defeated rather than angry.

"Don't tell me you're not tired Sam. Stay put okay? Just, just go read your emails or somethin. Keep chasing Kelly Kline. I just need ... a drink. Make that drinks plural."

"Dean..." Cas attempted

Dean favoured his friend with a real smile "Don't go dyin while I'm gone, Cas. We need you." Dean clapped his friend on the shoulder and left.

Sam and Cas shared a puzzled look.

"Well that was..." Sam began

"...unexpected." Cas finished with an almost human shrug.


	41. Chapter 41 Something the Cat dragged in

**Chapter 41**

Dean walked into the library carrying two bottles of beer and smelling of car polish. He'd been up in the garage since Cas left earlier that morning 'having quality time with his number one girl.'

"Sam, you talk to your pen pal recently?"

Sam leaned back in his chair, took a swig of beer and examined Deans back where he stood, turned away examining a book with great interest. Deans inquiry was just a tiny bit too casual. Sam smiled to himself.

"Not since the day we got back, she didn't say much, just asked how we all were... guess she's busy."

"Yeah, guess" Dean hummed.

"You want me to tell her you're missing the emails, Dean?" Sam teased and grinned at his brother, dimples flashing. Dean snorted and shot him a dark look but didn't say anything for a while.

"Ya think we got any medical books in this lot?"

"I thought you were over your "Doctor Sexy MD" fetish, after the stuff with Gabriel in Wellington, Ohio Dean."

"Gettin shot in the back, wasn't a highlight, yeah."

"Speaking of Michele, Wellington's also the name of New Zealands capital city." Sam informed his brother and took another mouthful of beer, useless information mode fully engaged, "why you interested in medical books, anyway Dean? They aren't exactly light reading, you're not _that_ bored."

" 'm allowed to be interested in stuff Sam, was just wonderin how much blood a person has. The nets useless." He grumbled.

"Well Dean, it depends on the size of the person, their age, weight, sex... The bigger the person the more blood..."

"Fan fricking tactic, Thank you soo much Chuck!" Dean flared slamming the book on the table in irritation and walking out of the library.

"Dean... why... what ...?" Sam frowned at his brother's retreating back and chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully, shrugged and turned back to his research.

...

Michele sat on her bed with a toddler asleep against her legs, a clipboard on her lap and a pile of Supernatural books by her side. She'd been trying to research special children and prophets.

But one of her favorite fickids, Cat was distracting her by sending her links to stuff she was finding on line. The latest was a photo of three cats recognisably dressed as Sam (a rather fluffy brown cat with its fur combed over its eyes wearing a flannel shirt) Cas (a Siamese with bright blue eyes wearing a trench coat and a pair of wings) and Dean (a slightly smaller, very pissed looking, green eyed burmese wearing a brown leather jacket and 'the samuelet' with the caption above it's head saying "Son of a dog... I'm allergic to myself!"

"Cat where the heck do you find these things!" Michele typed while sniggering.

An emoji smile popped up.

"Hey M, remember the thing I sent you from YouTube a while ago? The one with the Taylor Swift song "Because of you" and the fan art and book quotes about John and Dean?"

"How could I forget? I bawled my eyes out over that one!"

. _..and that was before I knew they were real people_. Michele thought grimly thinking about her conundrum with Dean.

Dean Winchester had been a major prick, he was so totally in the wrong... and she knew she had been within her rights to snap back.

 _But_ \- she felt guilty.

Michele sighed deeply, she was in a bind. If she was going to survive this, if she had a chance of helping the Winchesters. She needed them to trust her enough to listen. She needed Dean to respect her. That wasn't likely to happen if she let him walk over her, made nice and apologised when she wasn't in the wrong...

But oh! She was pretty sure Dean Winchester was feeling guilty right now (because that boy could do guilt to an Olympic standard and win a gold medal... when things weren't his fault. So she imagined if he was wrong it would be worse.)  
But he was also stubborn as hell, emotionally fragile inside, with an exterior armor of snark, bluster, humor and indifference and was nearly pathologically incapable of reaching out or apologizing.

Michele had a bit of experience wrangling a man like that, she was married to one.

However... from the other side of the world? With only words (not exactly first tool of choice.)

Michele shook her head in frustration, and looked back at the screen to Cats words.

"I found another one! It's called "Thank you." It's basically all the book quotes where people thank the Winchesters for stuff, with the song and fan art mixed in."

"Fan art?" Michele asked dubiously.

"Pictures, for example for Bobby there's a wheelchair, with a bottle of Scotch and a baseball cap lying on it. I know you don't like a lot of the fan art. But this is really beautiful. It made me cry."

In that moment, Michele was overwhelmed with a bittersweet love for her young Slovenian friend Cat. Even though she knew nothing about the things the world really held and the struggles Michele faced. Cat ... and Peaches and Cougar... The smartest kid, Cardinal imagery, her social worker friend... even TheDarkKnight and Barb. Sometimes those people who understood ... but didn't _know.  
_ Those people, were _**her**_ light in the dark. With just words from the other side of the planet they helped.

 _Because of course, what she needed right now, was to cry over Winchesters._

And yet maybe it was, Dean wasn't a puzzle to solve or a pet to train, he wasn't the cause of her current misery either. He wasn't a bronze statue or a fairytale prince. He was a person, trying to do his best.

Michele clicked on the YouTube link.

And yes, she cried.

...

A thoughtful while later, Michele started typing. Dean Winchester wasn't someone who would ever respond to psychobabble crap. But honesty? Yeah, he might respond to and respect that.

...

Half an hour later Dean came back into the library carrying lunch.

"Sam, ya gotta have a talk with your hobbit about her nose bleeds, or hack her medical records or somethin." Dean announced in a rush, setting the food down.

Sam sat for a moment his brow furrowed in a frown, then pushed his research aside and looked directly into his brother's eyes.

"Why do I feel like there's something I'm not getting here Dean?"

"I mighta talked to her a couple of times..." Dean muttered looking away.

Sam frowned at his brother "Yeah ... so?"

Dean didn't answer for a long time.

"When?" Sam asked curious.

"After the Momento crap."

Sam raised an eyebrow at that.

"She saved our asses ... I think ...  
Skyped an' convinced Rowena t' do stuff ... said if she didn't, we all would've died ..."

"So... Rowena knows about her ...?" Sam asked, worried.

Deans mouth quirked "Nah Rowena thinks "HobbitualPsychik's" our Mom ... Your fault Sammy, ya let me think that email ... was from Mom...?!"

"That doesn't explain why you want me to invade her privacy and hack her medical records, Dean."

Deans face got the look that said, 'I've done something and I feel guilty but I'm not apologising and you can't make me.'

"I may've talked to her a couple more times ...

Before the whole Ramiel thing, t give her a heads up we were goin out on a case.  
... an' when we got back..." Dean suddenly looked very interested in his fingernails.

Suddenly it made sense.

"By talked... you mean you yelled at her... don't you Dean? Why?"

"Thought she saw it and didn't warn us ...cos it was Cas."

"Dean... that's...  
The vision stuff ... she probably didn't _see_ anything ... it doesn't... " Sam let out a huff of exasperation. "That still doesn't explain your interest in her medical records, or..."

"She, she said that cos she chose to save us ... I wouldn't need a bullet ... cos she'd end up bleedin' t death anyway."

"Dean?! What the hell?! ... Did you threaten to shoot her... "

"Shit Sam, I know! I screwed up okay! It's my fault, I lost it... Just check on her... Please." Dean hunched lower in his seat.

"She told me to have timeout." Dean muttered miserably "that she loved me but didn't like me very much... who even says that Sam?" Pale green eyes dragged themselves up to meet Sam's in entreaty.

Sam chuckled, amused despite himself "Moms say that, Dean."


	42. Chapter 42 The nosebleed section

**Chapter 42**

"So, get this, people _can_ die from nosebleeds." Sam looked up at his brother from a stack of browser searches. "Though this one... Robert Ford 47, of Gravesend, Kent... a British guy, that one, sounds like a witch thing."

Dean looked over the article and nodded "Yeah gotta be... Gravesend? Well that's ironic ... " he pursed his lips "Guess the British men of letters ain't god's gift after all ... they oughta worry 'bout cleanin up their own back yard insteada sendin their psycho bitch our way."

Sam's face scrunched in response, but he returned his eyes to the screen. "Most of them seem to be guys in their 40s, old people, or women after an assault. This guy Julian Hunter, 44, of Finchley, died after one - two-hour nosebleed.

So, it's possible..." Sam huffed frustrated "it's not like there's a large pool of medical data on prophets and special children, Dean.

Kevin ... looked pretty rough for a long time... and we just left him to it mostly. Garth probably knows a bit ... I - I just don't know" Sam swallowed and broke off looking down at his hands in guilt and misery."

"Don't Sammy! That one was on me."

"Me, you, Gadreel, Metatron ... " Sam pinched the bridge of his nose "Kevin's still dead. We didn't protect him, we were so busy ...saving the world ... we just used him, now he's dead."

"From what I kin tell New Zealand's pretty much a supernatural vacuum, there's not even any decent tribal monster lore, apart from some sorta giant ocean or river monster called a taniwha which no one blames for anything. Heck, mebbe they all went off to help save the whales or somethin."

"You researched New Zealand monster lore?"

Dean shrugged "If ya bring home a dog I'll make sure it gets its shots and buy it kibble too." Dean informed his brother with a goofy grin.

"Would ya also kick it and threaten to shoot it, if you came home pissed after a hunt Dean?" Sam asked in a tightly level voice, eyes on the screen.

"not cool man" Deans jaw clenched and he looked away.

"No, it wasn't Dean!"

Dean pushed back out of his chair and stood up "what do you want me to say Sam?"

"How about, that _you're sorry_?" His brother opened his mouth "- No Dean! to _her,_ not me... but we both know you aren't capable of that!" Sam spat and strode out of the room. A minute later the bunker door slammed shut.

Dean walked over to the whiskey decanter, picked it up and sent himself to his room.

...

Sam sat against the tree on the incline above the bunker, phone in hand for nearly an hour, fuming. Finally, he opened Skype.

"Michele? Can we talk."

"Sam I'm a little busy right now."

"Michele, I talked to Dean. Please, we need to talk."

"Yes, that makes sense.

Sam the reason I'm busy is because I'm 'talking' talking to your brother."

"Oh."

"Go hack my medical records or something, if you haven't already. Its what's worrying you, isn't it? I _am_ getting a transfusion Monday... or tomorrow depending on the CBC results, so if you are going to hack the system, let me know the latest results."

"!?"

"I read my own fic Sam, we both know you've already hacked them once. _It's fine_. We'll catch-up in a bit okay?"

...

"Hey Dean

The whole yelling match a few days ago, *wrinkles nose* not overly cool. On either side. I can't make you believe this, but, if I see stuff I _will_ try and tell you and Sam. I couldn't live with myself if I let someone die. Angel or human, especially the one angel who actually still seems to be working for my Boss… even if he's not in the office right now...

I get where you thought you were coming from though.

And I'm going to guess that possibly ... by now, you can see where I'm coming from. ?!

Please, let's just not do the whole yelling without talking thing.. Or the death threats.

Righty, over with?

Don't make me dress up in a sparkly blue Elsa dress and sing that awful "Let it go" Disney Frozen song... and don't make your brother do it either... please.

I believe in you Dean Winchester, a lot of people do, even though there's a portion of them that don't know you're real.

Now can I ask you to sit quietly and watch the following YouTube clip? In exchange, we will never speak of this again.

M"

She attached the link to Cats "Thank you" clip.

Michele had literally just pressed send on the email when she received a Skype call from Deans account.

When she accepted the call, there was only silence with the sound of harsh breathing for a few moments.

"Mitch?"

"Yeah I'm here."

"I - uh"

"Yeah, me too."

"I shouldn'ta.."

"You don't need to Dean... okay?  
I get it. I actually sent you an email like 5 seconds ago... I would like to know what happened with Cas though."

"I need ta know bout ya nosebleeds ... how bad is it?"

Michele took a deep breath. "The nosebleeds are _not_ your fault Dean" she said wearily "I was just snarling back at you, okay. What you said… really ... it hurt, you're not the only one with a temper when pushed too far."

"So..."

"So ...left untreated... my body's not keeping up with the nosebleeds that come with the visions, or not obeying" her voice wavered slightly "the compulsion to write. Maybe if I was a guy... but ummm girls..." she cleared her throat uncomfortably "Anyway, lots of tests... upshot, no useful answers. But there's lots of things I don't have...  
So... transfusion, tomorrow or Monday depending on the latest set of results, which I'm waiting on. Not great, but you're stuck with me for a while yet."

"Shit Mitch!"

"Think of it as an oil change, I am. It _is_ a good thing I'm a Christian not a Jehovah's Witness though, eh? Now what happened with Cas?"

So, Dean told her, his voice blank of emotion. Like a solider reporting on a mission. She didn't interrupt, she just let him talk. Wondering how much of his childhood had been spent reporting like this, to his father. She bit her lip and stroked her hand through her small son's hair, as he slept on, safe and warm against her legs.

"I can't imagine how awful it must have been watching Cas die. You might not have known Wally well but ... a good bloke dying, that's _never_ ok." Michele spoke quietly, her voice husky with emotion.

"Yeah. It wasn't good." Dean cleared his throat.

" _But Cas is okay, sos Sam. And your Mom_. And you know a bit more than you did, right?"

"And you're getting an oil change tomorrow or Monday so everything's jellybeans and cheese strings." Dean scoffed sarcastically.

"And pie." Michele added brightly hoping for a smile.

"So, we're good, Little Miss Sunshine?"

"Oi that's Little _Mrs_ Sunshine to you." Her son woke mewing in his usual overwrought fashion "Breaks over, back to the salt mines for me Dean. There's an email in your inbox." She said shushing her child.

"More hedgehogs?"

"Nah something the human fic Cat dragged in."

"I'm gonna let ya go, I've dealt with fuglies that sounded less pissed than that kid."

Michele laughed and cut the call. Carrying her son out to find him some food.


	43. Chapter 43 Youtube?

**Chapter 43**

Sam was waiting for his brother to come out of his room. He wasn't exactly eavesdropping, but he had definitely been monitoring the modulation of Deans tone, more than a bit curious about proceedings.

Then, for fifteen minutes there was silence.

When Dean finally emerged, carrying the almost full whiskey decanter in one hand. His face was pale and he was walking in a slightly halting careful manner.

"Sam." He greeted his brother frowning in a preoccupied way as he set the decanter back where it belonged.

"Dean?!"

"Sammy never get on the bad side of your hobbit..." Dean advised, his eyes appeared red-rimmed and shadowed, he scrubbed his hand through his short hair distractedly "she has YouTube clips and she ain't afraid to use them."

"YouTube? Dean... what?" Sam began, mildly alarmed by his brother's odd behaviour and words.

"We will never speak of it." His older brother intoned with a bemused look, shook his head and gave him a shaky grin.

"You apologized?"

"She wouldn't let me, but we're good."

"Okay... ?"

"Do you know where the leather cleaner is?" Dean snorted in derision "angel blood on the seat."

"Uh... on the shelf, in the garage - where it always is."

"Yeah... sure." Dean wandered off.

...

"So" Dean glanced at his watch and pulled a face "Your hobbit oughta be back from the hospital by now, right?"

Sam raised his eyebrows at his brother. Glanced at the laptop clock and did Time zone maths in his head "probably Dean ..."

"So, you should call an' check on her then."

Sam rolled his eyes and briefly considered finding out what Dean would say if he refused. But opened Skype.

"No - call her! Don't do the typing thing." Dean demanded.

Sam huffed in irritation "Am I checking on her ...or are you?"

"She's your pet Sam." Dean muttered then leaned over his brother's shoulder and clicked the buttons.

"Hi Sam" a slightly lilting cheery voice answered "hell-o Dean, how's my favourite American boys today?" she continued

"How'd ya know?"

"Because your brother isn't pushy like you Dean Winchester, we've never talked talked."

"Really Sammy?" Dean nudged his brother "so this is the first time you've heard her accent? Isn't she just the cutest little peppy thing, sorta classy and exotic too though, kiwi accents man, there was this kiwi bartender ... Somethin about her voice ... ooof" Sam elbowed his brother in the stomach with a warning glare, Deans laugh was all whiskey and dark chocolate.

Michele squeaked in distress and Sam could hear her take a slightly flustered breath. Sam opened his mouth to chastise his brother, though internally he could admit Deans actual description wasn't entirely wrong.

Then, Michele laughed "And here I thought you just couldn't keep up typing. Don't sass me about my accent Dean or else there will be MEMs with kittens ... or worse ... I'll go onto fanfic and find a Destiel fic and start reading it to you. It will psychologically scar both of us ... but _I'll_ still be able to look at _my_ best friend with a straight face."

The look on Deans face was priceless.

"Ya wouldn't."

"No I wouldn't" she agreed "cos your brothers here, and he doesn't deserve to suffer." The warmth and humour in her voice surprised Sam.

"Michele. You _do_ have a nice voice, you kind of ...uh sound like ... you belong in a story book. Like in fairy tales or something" Sam admitted.

"That's... that's, really sweet Sam." Then, she actually giggled "especially coming from a guy who _is_ a book character."

His brother shot him a sideways look and what could only be described as a pout.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Sam grinned "Well, _Dean_ wanted to check on you."

There were a few beats of silence "Well of course he did" her voice sounded introspective now "because despite your sass and bark you're a sweetheart, Dean Winchester." Dean crossed his arms and looked away.

"So, you're good, after your oil change Mitch?"

"I'm good, I was actually just about to bake some cupcakes, I'd offer to let you boys lick the bowl ... but ... you're a bit far away."

"Uh ... Shouldn't you be ... resting?" Sam queried.

"I'm fine Sammy, I was just running a couple of quarts low, that's all fixed now, how many transfusions have you boys had over the years? I mean seriously, I don't even have any gaping holes as an excuse.

Besides, Mr 8s got a shared lunch at school tomorrow, he requests cupcakes with blue icing ... so, cupcakes with blue icing he shall have!"

...

Dean bounded up the steps into the library while talking on the phone.

"Okay, well, stay on it.  
You get any leads, you let us know, and we'll keep working it from our end. Thanks, Cas." He leaned against the heavy wooden table and took a deep breath. Sam kept his eyes on the webpage he'd been reading.

"So, Kelly Kline is in the wind. No trace."

"Great." Sam rolled his eyes and huffed.

"No idea when Lucifer's kid is gonna pop, if it hasn't already." His brother continued his recap.

"So" Sam rubbed the back of his neck "basically, we got nothin'."

"Basically." Dean agreed dryly

"All right. Well, we do have this _other_ thing." Sam said making his brother look up from his phone.

"What, other thing?"

"Check it out. Museum in Des Moines, Iowa. A guy's body was found in the parking lot. A teacher. His tongue had been ripped out."

"Well, that didn't kill him." Dean contributed frowning and leaning over his brother's shoulder to read the Des Moines Herald webpage.

"No, but having his internal organs crushed did. Uh, no obvious damage to the torso, no point of entry."

"You thinkin' witch?"

"Maybe. I mean, he was seen alive just a couple hours earlier, leading a student tour of the museum."

"Hmm. Haven't seen Mom in a while. Maybe she'll wanna work with us on this." Dean rumbled thoughtfully.

"Okay well, you give Mom a call, I'll keep digging around."

"Gonna tell Mitch?" Dean queried turning back to his brother.

"I dunno man, how much _should_ we be telling her...?" Sam rocked back in his chair and took a deep breath.

"She's tougher than you give her credit for Sammy, 'sides at least if ya tell her we're headin' out she won't be blindsided."

"Can't we just uh leave her be? She has a lot on her plate already, Dean."

"Maybe if we tell her whats happening she won't need the visions to write the fricking Winchester gospels. No visions, no bleeding, no bleeding is a good thing, right?" Dean argued with a lopsided smile.

"Uh, I doubt it works like that."

"Yeah well... she's your pet, it's your call." Dean muttered with a shrug turning away and scrolling through his contacts to call their Mother.

...

There was always something comforting about being back on the road, riding through the night, no matter what the weather. For all the comfort there was in having the bunker as a home base, the rumble of the impala, the tunnel through the darkness and rain manifested by impalas unwavering headlights and the scent of well cared for leather, those things were like breathing free air.

Sam glanced up at his brother from the tablet in his hands.

"Get this. It looks like there was another murder. It's just like the one we're checking up on."

"Iowa?" Dean questioned.

"No, Andover, Massachusetts. Six months ago. A woman. Body was found in the same condition. Looks like she was a teacher, too."

"Hmm." Dean studied the road digesting the info.

"Too bad Mom couldn't make it." Sam murmured looking down "You said she was too... tired?" He questioned glancing across at Deans face in the passing light of an oncoming car.

"Yeah." Dean scoffed with a little agro shake of his head.

"What?"

"I don't know, I just - I feel like something's goin on with her, and she ain't talkin' about it."

"Mom's hunting again. That's a grind. You know that." Sam argued earnestly, brow furrowed, studying his brother's closed face "She just needs a little time, Dean. That's all."

"Yeah." Dean trained his eyes on the road his jaw set.

With a sigh, Sam looked away wondering what exactly was going on in his brother's head.

…..

Michele sipped her cappuccino and stared over the rim of her cup at her friend seated opposite.

"So yeah" she shot her friend a skewed smile "lately I've practically been living at the hospital, what with the boy's issues and now the ruddy nose bleeds."

Her friend gave her a sympathetic look from across her own coffee cup "Yes, it's sometimes hard to see Gods plan in the midst of things, isn't it?" Her friend mused.

"Yeah Karen it is, but enough about me, how many girls are you guys wrangling at the moment?"

Her friend and her husband had left their jobs as youth pastors to run a home for at risk teenaged girls, who had nowhere else to go. They called it Lighthouse girls home and it really was, a place well named.

"Four, we got another girl last week through the courts, from child youth and family, she's just so ... fragile and angry. I spend so much time at the moment, praying and begging God to show me how to help her" Her friends blue eyes held pain and frustration.

"I don't know how you do it, really I don't. Taking on these broken teens, trying to fix and build up these kids... loving them, being Gods hands and voice. Heck I've raised my girls practically all their lives, they're mostly great kids _but they're teenaged girls and oh! they are HARD work some days._.. not to mention the added bonus of the neurotic birth mother ... but my girls are the product of _my_ child raising. At the end of the day they _know_ I love them and I know how they work….  
You get these kids at the worst possible life stage and you pick up the pieces, you love them and heal them and teach them a better way, Gods way. For some of these kids, you guys are their _first_ taste of _Real_ love, patience, understanding and boundaries. You guys really _are_ making a difference... even if it doesn't seem like it. You're amazing my friend." Michele smiled warmly, reaching out and squeezed her friends hand.

Karen squeezed back and grinned "And, this is why I'm never too busy to meet you for coffee, gosh I needed that pep talk! So, what mischief has the birth mother of doom been up to. I didn't think she could be bothered with the girls."

"The girls, well mostly Vic. Reconnected with her on Facebook ... and I thought it was good, because they need to know where they come from, right? So, anyway, the girls have this school project on tracing their roots... so they asked her for info about her side of the family" Michele rubbed her lips. "But she just point blank wouldn't give it to them."

"Why?"

"I ... really don't know, it _was_ only a couple of names for a school project, so easy to just give to them. No need for all the drama."

"Couldn't they just use your info, you're their Mum."

"Well yes they could have... but..." Michele began, trying to bury the spark of hurt and insecurity "they wanted to use the info of their bloodline, they wanted to know who they are, and they deserve that, right? I get it. It's not so much to ask. Anyway, since birth mum wouldn't give us the info, wonder hubby contacted birth mums cousin and asked her and got the info that way."

Her friend smiled "Go hubby!"

"Then birth mum found out and did this giant rant about how horrible and evil we were going behind her back, invading her privacy etc etc ... she made it sound like we were creepy stalkers going through her trash or something."

"Ugh why do people use Facebook to air their dirty laundry? I hope you ignored it!"

"Uh..." Michele looked up with a cringe "no... I ..."

"Michele!"

"No! I didn't start mudslinging, I did the truth in love thing Pastor Chris spoke about last year... I said I thought the girls had a right to know. That I was sorry we upset her in the _way_ we got the info, but that the girls needed it for school and that she should be flattered the girls wanted it. That I was grateful to her for the lives of two of the most wonderful people in my life."

"So, what happened?"

"She deleted the post and sent me a bucket load of nasty messages." Michele shrugged apologetically.

Then, gave a strangled whimper and gripped her head in both hands like she was in agony.

...

 _The building was dark and grimy, dusty light filtered from high arched windows covered with wrought iron grates, vaulted brick walls of indeterminate colour and age. The place looked like an abandoned church._

 _A dark-haired man, face heavy with a scruffy beard and dressed in an immaculate black tailored suit stalked circles around another man._

 _The man was shackled to a heavy metal chair with clanking chains and a huge iron collar padlocked round his neck. The prisoner was mid-thirties maybe, blonde haired and blue eyed dressed in grimy jeans and a casual shirt._

 _"Oh, you'll resist, at first." The gravelly voice of the man in black taunted his prisoner. And suddenly Michele_ _ **knew**_ _the man in black was Crowley King of Hell, a demon._

 _"But the humiliation will eat at you._

 _Until, finally, you're worn down by your utter helplessness._

 _And you call me... Master."_

...

With a gasp, she blinked and swallowed thickly as blood dribbled down from her nose.

"Are you okay?" Her friend asked, a little horrified.

Michele nodded still disoriented by the vision and grabbed a handful of tissues from her pocket, held them to her face and tilted her head back, aware of the concern and utterly mortified by the attention.

Finally, the bleeding stopped.

"I ought to get home ..." she apologised to her friend, thinking in dull horror of the poor man who was being /would be tormented by the demon. She didn't know if anything she could do would help him, but she had to try.

"Are you sure you should be driving?" Her friend asked worried.

"I'm fine, honestly Karen, it looks worse than it is." Michele shot her friend a shakey smile and gathered up her small boy.

Karen sent a short prayer for her friend heavenwards as watched Michele walk away back to the car park carrying her child. The pain written on her friends face and the amount of blood were troubling... but what really made Karen uneasy was that for a tiny second, before Michele's eyes had closed in pain, she could swear she saw sparks flare in her green eyes.

Karen shook her head at her imagination. it must have just been a trick of the malls lighting.


	44. Chapter 4 Speak o many things, ships n

**Chapter 44**

"So thank you you again for meeting with us, Dr. Ochoa." Sam spoke with his usual polite ease as he followed the middle aged academic into the large space behind the museums everyday scene.

"Of course, Agent. I..." The lady sighed painfully "We've had two murders in two days. The police have no idea what's going on, and - " she faded off looking up at the two men in distress.

"Well, that's why we're here." Dean informed her gruffly.

"Now you said victim number two brought some Timber Troopers through here, right?"

"16 hours ago, they were standing right where you are." The doctor said looking slightly overwhelmed.

"Is there anything new to the museum?"

"Well, here in the lab, three traveling exhibits have been uncrated. One's already on display. The other two are being prepped." She explained.

"Dr. Ochoa?" A man called from the entry looking impatient and harassed.

"Excuse me."

"Sure." Sam flashed her slightly forced smile.

"Okay, so..." Dean cleared his throat "including the Massachusetts Vic, that is two teachers and one scout leader."

"People who supervise kids." Sam added, as his brother fished his EMF metre out of his suit jacket pocket and turned it on.

It warbled enthusiastically "Whoa." Dean turned off the metre with a small snap "There's a lot of action in here. Okay... well... I'm switching my vote from witch to ghost."

"I don't know. EMF isn't that surprising at a museum. They're always filled with ADHD spirits and their tethers, you know?" Sam reasoned with a slight raise of his eyebrows.

"Okay, but if our killer is a chain rattler, how we gonna figure out which one it is?"

Sam just replied with a small lift of his chin and a roll of his eyes, when was life ever simple. Seriously, Dean should know that.

They split up and began to look around the exhibits.

Dean thoughtfully fingered a pitted bone handled blade from one of the displays, testing its weight and heft "Hmm. Aztecs were pretty serious about their killings. Aztec ghost. Yeah, I like that." he rumbled to himself.

As Dean went to put the knife back on the display rack, it slipped and tumbled to the table, clattering embarrassingly.

Sam looked up from the thing he was examining with 'I can't take you anywhere' bitchface. Guiltily Dean returned the knife and pretended nonchalance as he ambled over to his brother.

"What you got?" Dean queried looking at the wooden carving of a woman his brother was standing by. A figurehead.

"It's from a ship, um, a brigantine called The Star. Sunk in a storm off the New England coast. Currently on loan from the Maritime Museum in - wait for it - Andover, Massachusetts."

"Really?" Dean asked recognising the correlation between the victims and the exhibit.

"Yeah. Sunk in a storm in 1723." Sam continued while his brother looked down consideringly.

"W-wait a minute. I know something about something, about this ship." Dean said excitedly.

"Um, it was, uh, headed to the New World.

Weighed anchor in Leith, Scotland." Sam continued hoping to jog his brother's mind and help him make a connection

"Leith. Yes." Dean held up his hand with a smile. Sam gave him an impatient 'share with the class' look "Gavin MacLeod. This was his ship."

"Crowley's kid?" Sam asked surprised.

"Yep." Dean answered with a smile and a nod.

They both considered the figure head.

What were the chances it was just a coincidence?

Pretty damn crappy.

Either way their next move was pretty clear. They needed to talk to Gavin and see if they could narrow down the search, before another teacher died.

Dean slid out his phone and scrolled through his contacts.

...

"What do you want?" Crowleys voice rasped in irritation when he picked up Dean's call.

"Need a favor." The elder Winchester informed the King of Hell laconically.

"You...need... You?" Crowley spluttered sounding hugely pissed "Turns out that behind that whole moron facade, you and your brother are, in fact, morons!" He hissed in fury "You let Lucifer's love child live?!"

"How do you even know about that?"

"I don't owe you an explanation."

"Okay, so I'm - I'm guessing this isn't the best time to ask you to get in touch with Gavin so we can talk to him?" Sam broke in between his brother and The King of Hell, placatingly.

"Are you out of your minds?" Crowley spat apoplectically.

"You know what, Crowley?" Dean rejoined, thinking on his feet "When you set Gavin free to live in our time and possibly screw up the rest of human history, we didn't hunt him down, okay? So I think you owe us." He shot his brother a 'it was worth a shot' look and Sam returned it with a shrug, wondering if it might work.

"You and Bullwinkle fix this mess before it hatches." Crowley grated "Then, maybe, then, we'll talk about my son." He hung up.

Dean considered his silent phone with a sour look and a shrug.

Sam sighed raking back his hair out of his face "So, now what do we do?" He queried.

"We'll figure it out, we always do."

...

Sam studied his phone with a frown as he sipped his coffee in the museum cafe "Mail from Michele... Hmm..." he read through the email then tossed the phone to his brother.

Dean read the email and snorted "So... Crowley's play date... not exactly useful ... blonde guy ... mid 30s... could be anyone."

"Or _anything_." Sam agreed "think that's where Crowley heard about Kelly Kline."

"Guess... could be, an angel?"

"We gonna tell Cas?"

Dean sighed and ran his hand over the back of his neck "And say what exactly? Can ya tell us if one of the feathery bag of dicks is missin', cos Crowley might have one in his lost n found. Cas, Crowley, and the douche patrol would ask questions. It's bad enough Rowena knowin' something's up."

"Yeah..." his brother mused with a sigh. Then, Sams face lit up, he shot his brother a dimpled grin "Rowena's Gavin's grandmother... do you think...?"

"Worth a go." Dean hummed thoughtfully.

...

Rowena sat opposite the Winchester brothers wondering why she had once again allowed herself to be dragged into their orbit, as they told her a story about dead teachers and ghosts.

"Your little story's _fascinating,_ but you said there was something in this for me?" She cut to the chase.

"If the killer is a ghost, it may be tethered to something on the ship." Sam explained, all serious and earnest eyed. "So we need Intel on the vessel." He finished hands clasped in his lap.

"Get a library card." She suggested picking up her bag to leave. "You two still owe me for helping you in Arkansas." She reminded them. Sam looked down unhappily and took a breath. Then he reached out and grabbed her arm with his huge hand.

"Sit down." He ordered, his eyes on her face. Breaking his grasp with a jerk, she sat back down feeling betrayed and cornered.

"We know of a guy who has firsthand knowledge of _The Star."_

"So?"

"So, if you find him, we actually do have something that you'll like. Like, _really_ like." Dean smiled like he was about to give her a present. And the boys shared a momentary glance, it was clear that both Winchesters were dying to see the effect of their revelation.

"Who is this eyewitness?" She asked coyly.

Sam shot his brother a look and a smirk, Dean tilted his head, eyes sparkling.

"His name is Gavin Macleod, he's your grandson."

Strangely enough the Winchester brothers were correct.

...

Rowena spread the black cloth covered with arcane runes and glifs over the small motel table and centred the Chrystal globe in the centre, Sam watched fascinated while his brother paced impatiently.

Rowena hands hovered over the ball eyes narrowed in concentration " _Ostende illum mihi quem quaero Gavin Macleod, Ostende illum mihi quem quaero Gavin Macleod, Ostende illum mihi quem quaero Gavin Macleod... "_

Rowenas voice chanted over and over again.

First a spark, then a flicker, then a pulsing radiance built within the Chrystal depths. Dean stopped pacing, Sam watched lips slightly parted. A smile curved Rowenas lips and she reached out blindly and began writing on the motel stationary.

Rowena let a pent up breath, the radiance died and she dropped the pen. Her shoulders slumped slightly in exhaustion.

Dean snatched the pad and began tapping the information into a web browser.

Sam dropped a hand to Rowenas shoulder "Thank you, can I get you anything?" He asked solicitously.

"A cup of tea would be lovely, Samuel." Rowena replied with a smile as she folded the cloth and stored away her spell paraphernalia.

...

The Winchester brothers waited for the bus to pull in, hands in pockets breath misting in the fridged morning air.

"There he is." Dean rumbled recognising the young man even after 3 years.

"Yep." Sam agreed.

"Gavin." Dean called out, both brothers raised a hand in greeting, drawing the young mans attention.

"Hey, Gavin. Good to see ya." Sam greeted as both brothers shook his hand "How's life in the 21st century treatin' ya?"

"Oh, fine." Gavin answered in a cheerful Scottish brogue "Where's my father, then?"

The brothers shared a look.

"Walk with us, Gav." Dean invited with a slight head tilt

"How sick is he?" Gavin asked worried.

"About that... we might've exaggerated a little bit." Sam answered.

"Lied. We lied." Dean added.

"Okay, well, we knew you wouldn't come if it was just us." Sam reasoned.

"We need your help, Gavin." Dean continued.

"Help?" Gavin looked around realising he'd been tricked by two potentially frightening men "Help!" He called out to a passer by.

"Nah, we're fine." Sam reassured both Gavin and the stranger. "Um, just hear us out… please."

"How did you find..." The brothers shared a look, Gavin rephrased "What are you going to _do_ to me?"

Dean pulled a piece of paper from his pocket "Just wanna ask you a few questions." He unfolded a flyer about the shipwreck exhibit. "About this."

"Dear God, that's _The Star."_ Gavin said surprised"That's my ship!" With an incredulous smile.

"Well, it should've been." Sam countered.

"Yeah, we know all about her." Dean refolded the flyer and looked down.

"We figured there's someone you'd wanna meet." Sam turned to the black Chevrolet impala they were standing beside and nodded to the small, redheaded woman sitting inside.

The woman climbed out, her eyes on Gavin's face.

"Hello, Gavin." She said cautiously "You look just like my father when he was young." Her voice was soft, the burr of home about it.

"Gavin, meet Rowena, your grandmother." Hands in pockets Sam introduced them both with a few nods.

"My… grandmother?" Gavin scoffed "She cannae be alive."

"Well, technically, dude, neither can you." Dean advised, as Gavin turned his eyes back to the woman before him in amazement.


	45. Chapter 45 Family - feud?

**Chapter 45**

"Sam, do we really have time to let them play catch up, right now?" Dean grumbled watching Gavin and his grandmother sitting in the small cafe through the intervening glass of the impala's windshield and the cafes glassed in front window. Deans knee bounced impatiently as he shot his brother a frustrated look.

"Drink your coffee Dean. Relax. It's only half an hour. We _do_ owe Rowena." Sam quirked a half smile. "If you're really bored you could sift through some missing person reports for blonde mid 30s guys."

"We are _not_ gonna to go chasing after Mitches red herring, Sam. She's kinda a nice, don't get me wrong, but she's just got no damn idea about the real world."

Sam let out a quiet huff, eyeing Rowena and Gavin again, speculating internally on what they were saying to each other. Rowena had seemed so ... gentle with Gavin. With everything he thought he knew about the witch it was more than a little discordant. Sam found himself envying the scene inside that cafe window.

He wondered if their interaction was more or less strained, than his and Deans halting communication with their Mom. Even twenty minutes after meeting, they seemed more at ease.

While he tried hard not to show it, there was always a twisting feeling of anxiety in his gut whenever he thought of Mary Winchester.

She had always been a blank space in his life, one his older brother had done his best to stretch himself over (and to a certain level, Dean had succeeded fairly spectacularly.) Maybe that was the problem, Mary Winchester was Deans Mom, she was Sam's as well of course. But it was Dean who had the expectations and golden tinted childhood memories of her. So many of which turned out to be completely distorted through the gold, there was a little boy inside Sam's older brother, who expected Mary to be the woman that fitted with the four-year-old he had buried deep inside, like a bug caught and preserved in amber. But their Mom couldn't or wouldn't see past the surface, she saw only the rough at the edges 6-foot man.

Sam had watched his brother try so hard, and he was sure they had made connections. Flickering moments of bonding over bacon and beef jerky... More than he'd been able to forge in his fumbling way. And yet Mary kept walking away.

It hurt Sam in some deep hard to reach place, that wanted to know his Mom.

But it gutted Dean, and for that Sam felt a tiny bit of coldness inside himself towards his Mom that he struggled constantly to repress. Along with a shard of guilt that shifted uneasily inside.

Sam, he had Dean. He'd always had Dean. And he was never ok with anything that wounded his brother.

It was actually one of the things that built the wall between Sam and their father. The way he'd treated Dean, his unrealistic expectations, the damage Dean carried.

But Sam had a lifetime of John Winchester, in all his forms. It helped balance the resentment, knowledge that his father _had tried,_ often in impossible circumstances. He often failed, granted, but he'd done his best. There were many fathers under less strain that would have just walked out and left him and Dean to the system, what would they be then?

Sam could see that much more clearly now, than he ever could when he was younger. Along with the moments of resentment, Dad had earned love and respect.

With Mom, the only real thing he had as a balance was who and what she was.

What he knew he ought to feel.

Those things were so incredibly slippery.

Especially since she was never around.

But ... there it was ... the image of her holding a gun to her temple, saying she loved them, ready to pull the trigger ... So, he wouldn't lose Dean.

How she'd stood by their side to fight Ramiel, to save Cas.

The reasons he had, to repress those moments of resentment towards Mary Winchester and cut her some slack. They weren't childish reasons, Sam told himself... they were more than enough.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes with another small huff of breath.

"Sam" Dean frowned and looked across at his brother "it's just not feasible, you know that, that article ya read me couple o' months ago... 90,000 missing people here in the States at any one time, 60% of em adults, more than 52% of em male, 56% are white..." Sam raised his eyebrows, he remembered reading Dean that USA today article, back when they'd been hunting Lucifer. The entire time Dean'd been cleaning the weapons, looking for all the world like he'd been ignoring his younger brother.

Sam rubbed his lips to hide his smile and made a considering noise in the back of his throat.

"Ya don't have to tell her we're _not_ looking into it." Dean suggested magnanimously. "Send her a couple of photos that could be a match. Pokin' things with Crowley though. It's just not worth it. Crowley's has his uses. Mitch sorta does too. Just gotta keep em outta each other's orbits."

"I'm not arguing Dean... it ...it makes sense, I'll find some missing person reports that fit the bill."

"How bout we give her a call while Rowena and Gavin re-enact "Long Lost Family" the Macleod edition, in there over cups of tea."

….

Michele was multitasking the job of folding laundry and reading her son a Lynley Dodd book about the cat that was the family pets namesake.

"Slinky Malinky was blacker than black, a stalking and lurking adventurous cat.

He had bright yellow eyes and a warbling wail, and a kink at the end of his very long tail." She half chanted the words from memory folding another shirt, as her son sat next to her holding the book on his lap.

"Gat." The little boy agreed flashing her a happy dimpled grin, Michele flipped the cardboard page.

She answered the Skype call but kept reading.

"He was cheeky and cheerful, friendly and fun. He chased after leaves and he rolled in the sun.

Hi boys what's up?"

"I've never seen Dean chase lea-ves." There was a smirk in Sam's voice right until the last word, when Michele was pretty sure, Dean had hit him.

"It's story time at Cassa Chadwick, we're having a Slinky fest.

But at night he was wicked, fiendish and sly. Through moonlight and shadows, he'd prowl and he'd pry." She continued quoting the book, making Sam snort in amusement.

"Well, at least it rhymes." Dean rumbled.

"Yip, but the books about a cat, Sam, _not_ your brother, if they rhyme they're much easier to learn off by heart, so you can do something else as well."

"Yup, I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them, Sam I am." Dean quoted drolly.

"Man ... I loved that book." Sam said with a smile in his tone.

"You sure did" Dean rumbled "...course you loved the freakin Lorax more, when Pastor Jim gave us that stack of Doctor Seuss books from the church rummage sale I didn't know if I loved him or hated him. Damn ecofreak book!"

"I remember...We ...lost it when we moved." Sam sounded aggrieved.

"Bout that Sammy, I may've, sorta, stuffed it in a trash can during one of our pit stops. You... ya cried so much, I felt like shit after... but by that stage we were a state away ...Dad said not to tell ya. Think he hated readin that book as much as I did."

"DEAN!" Sam's voice held outrage and hurt.

"Ummm how old were you Sam?" Michele broke in.

"Uh 4 or 5..."

"So, that made Dean what? All of 8 or 9. For an 8 or 9-year-old big brother, it would have practically been self-defence, Sam. That book is really long and wordy. We got it out of the library and it went back after I read it to the girls... once. Somehow I think Dean had to read it more than once if he remembers it that strongly."

"Hundred times." Dean muttered "So 'bout Crowley's playmate, we'll look into it. Email ya all the missing person's reports, see if you kin ID him."

Michele smiled. Then let out a pained hiss as her vision shattered into images and pain.

Distantly, she heard Sam ask if she was ok and managed to say something through a mouth attached to a skull split with lightning.

With a weary sigh, Michele spat a mouthful of blood into a handful of Kleenex and stared at it thoughtfully, considering everything the vision had updated her on.

"Sam, Dean you have many marvellous and useful talents" She said dryly.

"Uh..." Sam began.

"On top of those you're very good liars." She continued, tiredly holding her shattered head in her hands, feeling another wave of vertigo. "But boys, really! Do us all a favour, whatever is in charge of all of this, apparently, it has a thing for the truth... me knowing the truth. You're right I do have ' _no damn idea about the real world'._.. How does a country lose 90,000 people?" She asked, her voice catching at the end of the sentence.

Dean swore and Sam made quiet sound.

"Possibly you're also right," she continued "the blonde guy could be an angel, he could be anything... I don't... I don't know. Maybe it's just a reminder that Crowley is one of the bad guys, not your friend... I don't know. But... I just can't help feeling like it's important..."

"Michele"

"Mitch"

"I understand you guys are used to lying, it's one of your go to moves... especially with women. I also know you're trying to protect me, and I do appreciate the sentiment... but... well, lying to me just wastes blood some poor sap donated and gives me a killer headache okay? Tell me as little or much as you want, but don't lie… _please_.

I'm gonna go, I kind of need to go lie down for a bit. I hope you find your ghost, and I really wish I could be more useful... But I'm going to assume God already gave you everything you need to sort that job."

Michele logged out of Skype.

"Well, I think the Macleod family catch up has had enough time." Dean announced into the silence thumping his palm decisively on one jean clad knee.

"Uh yeah, let's take Gavin to the museum." Sam replied with a small swallow, his brow furrowed.

…

When Gavin recognized a locket from Shipwrecks of New England Star exhibit manifesto, as a gift he had bought for his then-girlfriend, Fiona; It made sense.

He'd been supposed to meet her the night he was to board the ship, she'd hoped to convince him to take her with him on the dangerous Atlantic crossing. She had believed that they could face the brave new world together, bound by their love.

But Abaddon had gotten to Gavin before Fiona did, kidnapping him as leverage against his father, Crowley King of Hell. Finding Gavin gone that night Fiona had thought he'd left without her, so she smuggled herself aboard the ship and had then died when the ship sank, alone pissed and heart broken.

They were perfect conditions to produce a vengeful spirit, tethered to the locket... which had vanished, coincidentally with a teacher led visit from the Pembroke Day School for girls.

They had arrived at the Pembroke Day School for girls, moments too late to save one teacher, but in enough time to save another.

After a little coaching from Rowena Gavin summoned and spoken with Fiona. Her tale was heartbreakingly tragic.

After she had smuggled herself on board the Star to be with the man she loved, she was discovered onboard the ship, but Gavin was nowhere to be seen. As a stow away with no protector aboard, had been abused and raped by the crew. The other passengers wouldn't lift a hand to help her, encouraged by the teacher from their village Mistress Alloway that said she "deserved it for throwing herself at Gavin."

Fiona's misery, trauma, heartbreak and anger had warped her once gentle spirit, focusing it with laser like vengeance upon teachers. Who to Fiona's shattered mind all claimed to love children and then betrayed them.

….

The two MacLeod's and the two Winchester's sat across from each other, the fire burnt warm but everyone felt a chill that had little to do with the March chill in the air or recent snow.

"Her life aboard that ship was so unbearable, she felt death would be a relief. But the sweet maid I knew is now a spirit bent on revenge." Gavin told his listeners mournfully.

"So, we agree Fiona has to be stopped." Sam said gently.

"We can't burn her bones. They're at the bottom of the Atlantic." Dean added

"Could destroy the locket. Then again, she might also be tethered to something else on the ship." The conversation bounced between the brothers.

"Either way, nothing can bring back the poor people she killed." Gavin's voice was full of pain.

The brothers shared a weighted glance.

"Actually, there might be a-a way to fix pretty much everything." Sam said carefully.

"What?"

Dean took a breath "Keep Fiona from going Casper in the first place." He said almost painfully gazing at Gavin.

"Yeah. There's no reason for her to be a ghost if she's not angry and alone... on the ship." Sam's voice was full of pained earnestness.

"You don't intend to tamper with the flow of time, do you?" Rowena broke into the discussion.

"That's up to Gavin." Dean stated everyone was silent for a moment. Eyes met and flinched away.

"Look, we're lookin' for a fix here, okay? This is it. We get him aboard that ship, he travels with Fiona, keeps her safe."

"And go to his death. That's your solution?" Rowena argued horrified.

"I didn't say it was the fun one, okay? Just the one, and you know it." Dean answered Rowena with a deflecting look "And it would keep history intact."

Gavin took a breath "I...was thinking the same thing." He met Rowena's eyes as he spoke "I loved her. She loved me. That's the only reason any of this happened. I can spare her the nightmare she's trapped in. I cannae say I ever fit here. Here, I'm alone. Fiona and me, we'll spend eternity together." With each word Rowena's face melted from stubborn denial to pained acceptance.

"Never gonna happen." A gravelly voice broke into the discussion. Everyone looked up to see Crowley King of Hell.

"Just 'cause Dim and Dimmer here can't keep their own family all in the same dimension, doesn't mean they can mess with mine!" Crowley spat.

"Father, I want to do this." Gavin scolded

"What you want is a gym membership, happy hour at Hooters, and Cubs tickets - none of which are available anywhere else but here." Crowley insisted.

"I've made up my mind." Gavin stated un-swayed by his father.

"Then, why did you call me?" Crowley demanded.

"You called him?" Dean asked.

"To say, goodbye." Gavin answered painfully.

"Let him go, Fergus." Rowena added.

"Butt out."

"Fergus, he's not like us. He believes in things. Let him do what he believes is right." Rowena pleaded.

Gavin stood up and Crowley reached out to grab his son, transport him away. But Rowena was to quick for him.

"Manete!" With a snapped spell, Crowley was frozen, hand still reaching for his son.

"Mother... Damn you." The demon rasped, his eyes shiny.

Gavin stood just out of reach of his father's frozen hand and stared into his eyes "I'm sorry, Father." He told him.

As Crowley stood frozen, Rowena, Gavin, Sam and Dean walked away from him without another glance.

Crowley stood, frozen, eyes swimming with tears he could not shed.


	46. Chapter 46 If I could turn back time

**Chapter 46**

"Gavin is there anything you want before you, uh... go back?" Sam asked, brow furrowed as he looked over his shoulder at the young man in the back seat.

"I cannae think of anything I could possibly want, in these circumstances." Gavin answered with a small shrug and a wavering smile.

"Gav" Dean teetered on the edge of telling the young man he didn't have to go through with the plan, before stopping himself "you're a good guy." He finished lamely.

"Father said much the same of you both." Gavin answered thoughtfully.

The Winchester brothers shot him a startled glance "Wait, Crowley talks about us?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Complains might be a more apt term, be that as it may, yes often. He oftentimes said you are the reason he visits - visited me as often as he did. The man I knew as my father and buried before I came to this place, was a worse man than the demon that now replaces him, odd as that may sound to Ye. While he may curse you for this change, and oftentimes does at length. I, I am thankful, for these past three years. For the chance to meet my grandmother, if only briefly... and the chance to be reunited with my Fiona once again." Gavin's tone was bitter-sweet.

Sam and his brother exchanged a look, Dean raised an eyebrow and shot Gavin a fleeting grin "Gav, that whole speech there is, in a nutshell why people think the Scottish are crazy." He rumbled good naturedly training his eyes back on the dark road.

Sam felt his phone buzz and checked his emails "Ah, so, Rowena came up with the goods. The bunkers stocked with everything we need, so... We will be good to go."

"Great, well, you two should get some shut eye if you can, we've got hours left before we hit Lebanon."

The inhabitants of the impala returned to silent contemplation of the black void outside the car and the insides of their own heads.

...

Dean ranged the various spell components Sam had requested on the heavy wooden table, Sam glanced between the thick book of lore and the iPad in his hand, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Dean can you..." Dean handed him the Mortar and pestle and a small box of measures, Sam shot him a dimpled smile and brushed his hair back out of his eyes, before glancing across to where Gavin stood uncertainly, clutching the locket.

His smile slipped away.

He handed his brother the iPad distractedly and Dean put it out of the way on one of the book shelves, occasionally magic had a tendency to fry the newer electronics if they were too close to the action.

Dean watched his brother measure out the various ingredients with a measure of satisfaction, Sammy's long hands moved with a sureness and grace though his brow was furrowed with concentration. They had come a long way from simple salt and burns, that was sure.

Sam at least, deserved the title of a legacy Man of Letters. Moments like these made Dean proud of his kid brother.

Sam took a breath, stood up and stretched his spine, then began grinding the contents of the mortar. Gavin and Dean drew closer.

"That soup yet?"

"Almost." Sam replied then poured the mortars contents into the large metal bowl with a slight flourish and laid the snowy feather on top.

Sam picked up the knife, glanced up at Gavin "You ready?"

"Do it." Gavin said extending his palm, Sam made a quick cut across Gavin's palm, he winced and clenched his hand into a fist letting the blood run into the bowl soaking the other contents.

After a few more moments Dean handed him a bandana to wrap the wound.

Sam carried the bowl, the lore book and a paintbrush over to a clear stretch of wall and began to carefully paint the sigil from the lore book.

"Ready to do this, Gavin?" Dean found himself asking

"You're positive this will work?"

"Never done it before." Dean admitted hands in pockets "But our granddad did. And Abaddon. And Rowena tweaked the spell so that you could use it."

"All right. I think that's it." Sam told them with a deep sigh. Getting to his feet he exchanged places with Gavin.

Dean blinked past the burn of sudden emotion in his eyes looking away and back at Gavin "Well, this is a tough one."

"You're a good guy, Gavin." Sam told him, brow clenched "Thank you."

"Hopefully..." Gavin's voice wavered as he tried to put on a brave face "this is all for the best." He kissed the locket he held in his blood-stained hand. Dark eyes gazing back at the brothers.

Dean blinked and swallowed, there was a bravery in Gavin in that moment that made his own seem like a tiny small thing. Would he ever love anyone the way Gavin loved Fiona? He doubted it and in that moment, he both envied and hated the thing that brought Gavin to this point.

"Beam him up, Scotty." He choked out past a throat narrowed with emotion.

"Kah-nee-lah, poo-goh, kah-nee-lah." Sam chanted the spell, his voice soft and hesitant laced with emotion.

On the wall the sigil ignited, burning brightly.

A bright glow materialised beside Gavin and Fiona's form became visible.

Gavin turned and in that moment, all the remaining fear was stripped away from the young man's face, as he faced the woman he loved, the woman he loved more than life.

Sam took a pained breath, eyes rolled ceilingward to stop tears from spilling, his mind and heart filled with an overwhelming yearning for Jess, so many years gone. But for that moment, she felt so achingly close and just out of reach.

Dean stood transfixed lips slightly parted, as Gavin and Fiona laced hands, Gavin's form began to glow also. And for a moment the sight was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever witnessed. Then, the glow intensified and the two vanished like trails of bright smoke, leaving only a memory and a bitter sweet ache.

For a long time the brothers stood side by side staring at the empty space left behind, each pursuing his own thoughts. Then Dean shook himself and nudged his brothers shoulder

"You want first shower? I'll clear this up." He gestured to the spell components.

Sam nodded once turned and made his way slowly down the hallway as if he was sleep walking.

Dean flicked his eyes back to the empty spot and took a small breath as he began clearing away the debris of the mornings work.

By the time Sam returned only a faint smell of bleach and a few damp shadows remained, on the wall, where Sam had painted the sigil in Gavin's blood.


	47. Chapter 47 Truth lacking in love

**Chapter 47**

Michele woke from the dream with the taste of blood on her lips.

 _Prophecy then,_ she thought sadly, sliding silently out of bed and padding into the lounge. What was the point to showing her what she'd seen?

The damage was done.

What was she supposed to do?

Warn them?

It wouldn't help anything.

All she'd seen was the closing act, the bad attempt to put things right that just caused carnage.

Besides, Dean Winchester would most likely shoot the messenger who came with this warning.

It was something Peaches had always said, to hurt Dean, all you needed to do was hurt Sam. You got a double hit for your money.

Family was one of the pillars of who Dean was. This was going to tear him apart and he wouldn't know which way to turn.

And Sam ... Oh Sammy, the ache of hurt and confusion in his changeable eyes brought a lump to her throat, the way he'd tried to be reasonable, despite _everything,_ it was beyond brave.

It wasn't fair! It wasn't right!

Michele felt the urge to draw blood on their behalf. To grab Mary Winchester and shake her until her teeth rattled and force her to _see_ and _feel_ her sons pain.

But Mary Winchester was out of reach. Which was probably just as well. Messing with someone else's family matters never ended well.

"God, what the heck am I supposed to do here?" She sighed into the darkness

...

"So, history should be back on track, sendin Gavin back to the moment he came, it should be like he never left, right?... But _our_ Gavin didn't hate Crowley. The spirit that Bobby raised with the signet ring did though? So, how does that work?" Dean frowned. "It's how we got the location of Crowley's bones."

"Dean, don't man... seriously, let it go."

"So, we remember it, but the rest of the worlds been reset like with the whole un-sinking the Titanic thing? Who wants us to remember this time? Cos it sure ain't Cas"

"Dude seriously... "

"Recon Mitch's on deck?"

Sam checked the time and frowned harder at his brother "Its nearly 3pm there, but Dean ..."

"She knows what we were doing last couple of days, right? So, if Fiona never went Casper cos Gavin was with her on the ship, did we go to Iowa? I just wanna see okay."

Sam huffed in irritation as his brother made the Skype call.

And smirked when Michele refused it.

His brothers top lip gave a small irritated twitch at being denied.

Instead, Michele sent Dean a string of text. Sam smiled and leaned closer to read it.

"Hi Dean, how're my favourite real life action heroes today? I'm just picking up Mr 8 from school. In an effort to save my phone data and not have the other mums look at me like I'm nuts or having an affair, do me a favour and use your keyboard for once."

Dean grumbled to himself and started typing.

"Mitch can I ask ya some questions?"

"Sure hon, we have about ten minutes till they release the hoard from kiddie jail. If that's not enough we can 'talk' when we all get home."

"What have Sam n I been doing past few days?"

"Ummm Dean? Why are you asking me, don't you know? Have you been playing with witches again?"

"I'm fine. Humour me."

There was a lag.

"Yip ok, you've been hunting a ghost, that crushes internal organs, at a museum. The ghost is linked to a ship. The star, last we talked you were going to take Rowenas grandson to the museum to try work out what was tethering the ghost.

Are you sure you're okay? Where's Sam? If you're having trouble remembering stuff... you really ought to tell him... please."

Dean snorted and raised his eyebrows at his brother.

"Hu... so she remembers?!" Sam muttered in response "that's ... interesting."

"Ain't it just, better check we actually fixed things."

"Mitch my memory's peachy and Sam's right here giving me his best bitchface. Just testing ya"

"Testing me? ... Seriously Dean?"

"Don't piss her off Dean, best case scenario is kitten MEMs." Sam advised.

Dean smiled slyly and typed "Need to know basis, sweetheart." Sam cast a look at his older brother. He was pretty sure Dean was baiting her.

"And I don't need to know. I get it... sometimes sharing…. is not caring." Sam stared at Michele's response, it seemed a little off.

"You're our cute little canary." Dean practically taunted.

"Dean, enough!" Sam growled at his brother threateningly.

Dean went still, his devil may care grin dissolved, Sam felt a moment of surprise, Dean never backed down that quick. Then Sam read the screen

"Ah Dean -fond smile, ruffles his hair and pats his cheek- you really are an adorable brat."

Michele did it all the time, dropping in those gestures. It was weird, but Sam found it sort of nice. The gestures though, the thought of anyone taking _those_ liberties with his brother was ... bizarre.

Dean apparently didn't quite know how to respond. It was like he'd been short circuited.

Sam slid the laptop away from his brothers stilled hands.

"Hi Michele. Sorry about Dean, he's being a Jerk."

"Hi Sammy! -warm smile- it's fine, I have two teenaged daughters, an autistic son and a toddler going through the terrible twos... Not to mention a husband, that's sort of similar to your brother in some ways. What's another brat in the mix?"

"That is one way to look at it, I guess." Sam typed. Looking sideways at his brother again.

….Brat?

Dean was frowning slightly, but looked surprisingly un-pissed.

"I meant what I said, and I said what I meant, Sam my friend. Tell me as much or as little as you need to, of course I am curious as heck (cos Deans a tease, and he knows it!) But I'm not going to push...

I would like you both to know, I am here to help, where I can. You aren't alone okay.

Even if is just listening or being 'your canary,' okay?

Eek speaking of brats, my smallest ones just broken into his brothers classroom gotta go..."

"Okay. We have to check out a few things here, take care, and thanks."

"Well?" Sam asked his brother.

"It's _so_ nice you have another chick to have girly moments with Sammy." Dean gave him a shit eating grin "I'm gonna go ring the school and check on the teachers, you do the cyber geek thing see if Andover happened."

Dean walked out of the room to find the contact info, Sam shook his head and turned back to his laptop.

...

"So, the teachers at the girls' school are all back to work. It's like nothing ever happened. That's all the victims in Ohio." Phone in hand Dean returned a while later sounding pleased.

"Well, no mention of the Massachusetts murder either. Uh, no Fiona, no angry ghost. Looks like history is back on track. Thank you, Gavin."

The unmistakable sound of the bunkers door opening made both brothers look up. There were only two other people with access to the bunker.

"Mom!"  
"Well, well!" Both boys spoke together.

"Hey!" Sam called out in greeting to his Mom, lifting both hands in welcome.

"It has been a while." Dean drawled "A long, long..." Dean guestured cutting the air with one hand "long, long, long, long while."

"Yeah," Sam held up a warning hand to his brother, silently requesting peace "all right. He's dramatic, _as you know_. What he _meant_ to say was, we missed you. Glad you're back." Sam looked up with an eager Labrador grin at his Mother. Dean regarded her with a forced smile, which quickly fell away as he shoved his phone in his pocket.

Mary held up her burdens "Burgers. Beer." She smiled and slid them across the map table.

"Yum." Sam enthused pulling out a bottle of beer.

"Mmm. Forgiven." Dean declared grabbing a handful of fries and stuffing them in his mouth "Whatcha been up to?"

"Oh. Jogging, tai chi, meditation. Melting rugaru brains."

Both boys paused at the last. Deans enthusiastic chewing slowed and he stared at his mother like something hunted.

"Uh, m-m-melting rugaru brains?" Sam asked his voice careful.

Mary eyed both her son's wary faces "There's no easy way to say it, so I'm just gonna say it. I have sort of... been working with the British Men of Letters. "

Sam shook his head minutely "M- You - you, uh... you uh ...what?" his face a study of searching confusion.

"Ah." Dean nodded to himself his eyes going distant, as small things dropped into place. His eyes slid to his brother, suddenly getting an urge to put his arms round his brother and shove him behind him, so he could place himself between his brother and his Mother. Instead he stayed by Sam's side, crossing his arms defensively as Sam began to talk.

"Mom... we, um... we have a-a history with... them." He said slowly, strugglingly. His changeable eyes trained on his mother.

"I know, Sam." Mary replied defensively "And it was a hard decision. But they're doing good work. I have helped them save people, a lot of people. We can learn from them."

Sam cringed. Dean narrowed his eyes thinking of all the things Toni Bevell had 'taught' his little brother while the bitch had had him, the nights he still woke up screaming and whimpering. The fact that tonight he would probably have another dose of those night terrors because of this very conversation. He stared at his mother with a scowl.

"Do not give me the face." Mary bit out at her eldest son.

"What face?" Dean grated in a surly tone.

"You know the face." Mary continued as if suddenly she was facing a child instead of a 6-foot man, as if his objections were childish.

"There's no face." Dean declared, his scowl deepening as he struggled to control his surging emotions.

"That's the face." She countered with a flip of her hand.

Deans lips narrowed further as he looked away struggling not to see Toni Bevells face, her plum in the mouth vowels overlaying his mothers.

"Mom," Sam broke in "we have our own tool kit, and it works just fine. A-and for obvious reasons," Sam couldn't believe he had to spell this out "like broken ribs and burnt feet..."

Sam struggled to maintain eye contact with his mother past the pain, eyes bouncing between his hands and her face. He felt his brother move next to him, physically pained by what his younger brother had gone through, because both brothers knew ribs and feet was the least of it.

Sam took a deep breath

"We don't trust the Brits." He finished.

A silence descended, unfilled by all the words both sons longed to hear.

"So where does that leave us?" Dean asked finally shoving his hand into his pocket, gripping his phone in lue of a gun or a blade that his hand itched for.

"Same as always." Mary said after a pause, both of her son waited for explanation "Family."

Dean lifted his chin feeling a burn behind his eyes and swallowed. _Family_? His mind yammered _family?! That was her answer._

Sam looked up at his mother's face, betrayal and hurt twisting in his gut _  
_  
"Just hear me out. Please." Mary said earnestly.

"Wow." Dean breathed "Just wow." Turning away he ran a hand over his face, palming away moisture.

"Dean. What the British Men of Letters are doing what we're doing, it's a better way." Mary argued as Dean paced in a tight circle and Sam buried his face in his hands and tried to knead the tension from his brow. Remembering Toni Bevell hold a knife to his brothers eye as she purred about pain.

"They" Mary sighed "Look, I'm not blind to who they are or what they've done, but –"

"When? " Sam demanded and Mary looked back in silence "When?" Sam asked again with a flick of his hand "When did you start working with them?" His face miserable, because he really, didn't want the answer… _but they needed it_.

"Since... before the lake house."

Sam snorted and rolled his face away deflated, it was worse than he could have imagined.

Deans green eyes homed in on her face like a laser.

"It wasn't Wally. They brought me that case." Sam looked back at his mother as the hits kept coming.

"You were runnin' an errand for the Brits. And you kept it from us?!" Dean said incredulously

"Cas almost died!" He reminded her. ( _"If you're looking for someone to blame, look elsewhere."_ The words echoed hollowly through his memory.)

" I – " Mary began

"A Hunter got killed." Sam contributed.

"You think I don't know? I'm the one who burned his body. I'm the one who told his wife. I watch him die every night."

"Good." Deans green eyes turned to flint and his jaw clenched.

Mary sighed frustrated.

"I'm doing this for you. I'm playing three decades of catch up here." She flared.

"And we're not?" Dean rasped "How do you think this has been for us? We're _your sons_ , and you've been _gone_. Our _whole lives_ , you've been _gone_!" You said that you needed time. No," he held up a hand pointing an accusing finger at the woman in front of him "you said you need space. So, we gave you your space." He held up his hands in surrender "But you didn't need just space. _No_ , you needed space from _us_." He accused while his voice rasped with emotion.

"That's not true. Dean, I'm trying –"

"How 'bout _for once_ , you just try to be a _mom_?" He demanded, a Mom like Sam had been searching for on the fucking _internet_. _One that gave a fucking damn_!

"I am your mother, but I am not _just a mom_. **And you are not a child."** She hissed in response.

 _"I never was_." Dean responded with a small head shake, swallowing past the pain "So between us and them?"

"It's not like that." She responded.

"Yeah, Mary, it is." There was another silence where they locked gazes and Dean ached for all the words she didn't fill it with. Pleas and reassurances, for her to understand this was Sam, what the British Men of Letters had done to him, he couldn't let it go, he couldn't forgive, it was a betrayal of _everything_ "And you made your choice." He finally concluded and pointed upwards "So there's the door." He rasped and _knew_ if he didn't leave now he would lose control completely. And he wasn't sure if it would end with blood on the floor.

So, he walked out.

Mary turned to her youngest son as he pushed his chair back, his eyes trailing his brother.

"Sam…." The young man looked up at her slowly, with the pleading eyes of an abused puppy. Shoulders hunched under the pain.

"You should go." He said quietly and turned to follow his brother.


	48. Chapter 48 Sleepless in Kansas

**Chapter 48**

Michele flopped down on the bed with a weary sigh, her small feline companion bounced up onto the bed, settled herself against the curve of her mistress' hip and began purring. The kids were stowed in their rooms either asleep or working on assignments for school. Quiet and peace enveloped her after a day of almost constant motion.

It wasn't often her husband did out of town overnight jobs, but it was part of the deal. She got to be a stay at home mum and he got to travel when work needed him.

So, for the first time since she'd been unable to hide the physical symptoms of her 'condition,' she had an evening where there were no troubled eyes watching her every move, no work roughened hands constantly reaching out to touch her as if to make sure she was still there.

Her husband was worried and scared and didn't understand what was happening. His fear of losing her was underpinned by quiet desperation.

She got that, really, she did. But damn! It was nice to have some space. Well it would be... if he'd stop calling her every few hours. Michele rolled her eyes at the thought, resting her chin in her palm with a soft sigh.

Unlocking her phone, she ran a finger over lips still chapped by over-zealous goodbye kisses, she surveyed her email box with another sigh.

So many of her fic friends had emailed and she just couldn't see her way clear to reply... she wasn't doing such a great a job of compartmentalising things with Sam and Dean. It was just so... confusing, when one set of your friends were using doppelgängers of your other friends for toys.

But she couldn't judge. The whole thing about sins and casting the first stone, she wasn't sinless.

Her heads response was a deep blanket of silence whenever she contemplated emailing, ( _"if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"._ Her own mother's voice advised helpfully.)

She wasn't a good liar and the other part of her life, it was an endless round of hospital visits and worry. No one needed to hear about that.

Speaking of worry, her eyes slid from her email box to the Skype app.

Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam. Had the confrontation with Mary happened yet? If one of them came on line should she reach out? Michele wasn't sure she'd be able to help herself. It wasn't the data issue that had made her avoid listening to Dean and Sam's voices that afternoon.

Right now, only her Cougar was on line.

Her Cougar, well that had become an interesting friendship, they'd have these conversations 'about their fics' that would start with a message out of the blue, something like "My Deans being an ass again, making Sam's life difficult and Ellis is having a panic attack in the bathroom, thanks to a vision."

And Michele would smile to herself and say something like "You think you've got problems my Dean offered to shoot AU me, he's such a Jerk, thinks just because you get visions of the future you see everything."

It was almost like having someone to actually talk to about the bizarre three ring circus that her life was.

Occasionally though, it was a very uncomfortable fit, the day Cougar had cornered her over not reviewing her latest chapter and just kept at her, wanting to know what she didn't like about it. How did she explain that Ellis's 'porn cures,' the way Cougar described her hunter friend's bodies in such avid detail (even though it wasn't them) it freaked her out and gave her flashbacks of Montauk and what the fucking mermaid had done to them? And then there was the psychic crap, Cougars OC Ellis was a psychic, Cougar had an interest and talent for occultic things like astrology and tarot and kept pointing out if AU Michele was a prophet that meant she was probably psychic too. Cougar couldn't understand why Michele got so resistant and panicked over the idea, anything slightly occultic. If she hated that stuff so much, why make her namesake OC a prophet?

How to explain, how all that stuff felt ... **dangerous** …?

Something that both drew and repulsed her and would knock her out of the precarious balance she'd maintained all her life, that if she even looked at anything dark too long it could drag her over the edge into the abyss.

Cougar had her pegged as a goody two shoes, sexually repressed, mousey little Christian girl and had made it a bit of a mission to educate and enlighten her. Michele's husband thought it was hilarious.

Michele turned her eyes back to her emails and opened the bible passage for the day while trying, _yet again_ to work out exactly what to write in reply to The Smartest Kids last _two_ emails.

"1 Corinthians 13:1-2, 4-9

 **1** If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. **2** If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing."

The words spoke of the useless nature of prophecy and other powers, oh how she agreed with that.

Love... hmmm

 **4** Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. **5** It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. **6** Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. **7** It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

 **8** Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. **9** For we know in part and we prophesy in part,"

Michele smiled looking at the words, another hideously apt bible quote. Though she sort of liked the other version, the one that said love was patient, kind and _long suffering_... love often seemed to involve quite a bit of suffering in her experience. As did Prophecy, come to think of it. But that was the price you paid...

...

Michele jerked out of a light doze several hours later, still lying backwards on the bed, cat curled against her hip with her phone mashed into her cheek.

A Skype call from Dean.

Rubbing her eyes, she accepted the call blearily.

"Mmm Dean?" She murmured.

"The one and only sweetheart."

"Hey. You boys ok?"

"Sammy's sleepin, Sasquatch is a lightweight, always was." Dean informed her laconically. "You're not usually round this time o night."

Michele yawned "Mmm hubby's away, fell asleep with my phone logged in. How can I help."

"Woke ya?"

"Mmm. No biggie. What's up, I mean apart from you, you should be sleeping."

"Can't sleep."

Michele frowned, fairly sure she knew why "Want me to read you a bedtime story?"

"What kinda story?"

"How about the one I was reading the other day?"

"Cat book? Nah 'm not a kid, darlin"

"Come on you'll enjoy it. Besides you can't say you don't do kid stuff, you know who Dory is" She teased gently with a chuckle.

"Was hoping for somethin a bit more adult." Dean informed her, his voice rough, Michele found herself wondering how much he'd drunk tonight.

"Hmmm there's a really boring inorganic chemistry textbook on the bookshelf, that's as grown up as it gets, I used to fall asleep in _those_ lectures, it'll probably have us both out like a light in no time."

Dean made a disgusted sound "That might do it for Sammy, not me. There's more pleasant ways ta get ta sleep."

Michele eyed the bookshelf "Yeah I was joking about _that_ textbook, probably give you nightmares. Don't want that. What kind of book would you like?"

"Just wanna hear your voice." There was a slight ache in Deans voice that caught at her heart "Talk to me. Love that accent."

"Love to make fun of it, yeah I know. Be nice boyo." Michele replied lightly.

"Oh, it's _fun_ , but I'm not making fun baby. And I want to be nice to you sweetheart, _real nice_."

A thrill of danger ran through her at the purring undertones in his voice.

"Dean?" She queried softly, confused.

"Love the way you wrap your mouth round ma name, want ya to wrap your mouth round other parts of me."

Michele's eyes flared in shock. "Fuck! Dean?"

He rumbled a throaty chuckle "You got it sweetheart."

For a moment Michele froze in horror, anger and indignation jolted up her spine. Who the hell did he think she was?!

"Dean, you _know_ I'm married." She said in a strangled voice.

"He ain't home darlin. Just said. Nothin to worry bout there."

"Come on Dean, stop it, it's not funny... I'm not, I'm not that kind of girl... you _know_ that." She felt tears of anger burn her eyes.

"You could be, you'd like it."

God, she wanted to slap him, run from him, why was he trying to hurt her like this? She cared about him, she thought he cared to. If he wanted sex why wasn't he at a bar, why was he here? There were a thousand gorgeous women out there who would enjoy obliging him... She wasn't even his type. Why was he trying to hurt her like this? Surely, he didn't think she would _want_ _this_.

"Tell me what you want darling, tell me what you _need_." Deans husky words broke the silence of her panicked thoughts.

"no, Dean, no. This isn't _you_." She begged, her mind scrambled over everything she knew about this man. None of it made sense.

"This _is_ me." He spat.

Then in a flash everything did. He was trying to hurt himself, wasn't he? He was hurting and angry, after what his mother had done and said. And he was using her to hurt himself because he _did_ care.

Her panic. hurt and anger melted away.

"No Dean, I love you, I'm not letting you do this. To either of us."

"Love?" His voice was bitter rasp full of venom "don't say that. Don't you dare. You women say that, you're liars."

"I'm not lying. I love you Dean Winchester. But it has nothing to do with sex."

"Not worth loving like that, 'm shit. Go on, get outta here... "

"I'm not leaving you like this."

"Why not? Mom left, chose them... they fucking tortured Sam and she chose them." The raw pain in his voice tore at her.

"I don't know why she did that, honey. But I'm not her and her choices are not your fault, **okay**? Mums are people too they make bad, crappy decisions."

"Is my fault." He muttered "shoulda made it work, Sam doesn't deserve this..."

" _Neither_ one of you deserve this. Please believe me, _please_. I know what she did ... it hurts, but quit punishing yourself. You're allowed to feel angry and hurt. This is on her."

"My fault she's here, doesn't wanna be. Probably hates us, hates how we turned out. Such a fucking disappointment."

"Well then she's insane! You saved the world, you and your brother you're _**good**_ men. _The best!_ I'd be _**proud**_ to have you as my sons."

"Ya don't know me."

She couldn't help it, she laughed "I'm _**your prophet**_ Dean, I know you. I have to write your story, follow you round in these visions. I'm tied to you, whether I like it or not."

"Don't wanna be here either."

"The prophet gig isn't why I'm here tonight, why I'm _still_ here after you tried to pull that phone-sex crap on me. I'm here because I see you! I see your goodness, your loyalty, your strength, _and_ I see your hurt, brokenness and pain. I see your sacrifice, the way you love Sam, I see how much you give and how little you get back. But you keep trying... I see you, and _**I love you**_ and nothing you can say or do can convince me you aren't worthy of that love."

He made a small broken sound and she wondered if he was crying.

The silence stretched. And the distance between them made her ache.

She let out a pained sigh into the darkness. "Damn I wish I could touch you right now." She muttered without thinking.

" _Now,_ you wanna touch me Mitch? Talk about mixed signals." His voice was a flayed wreck but there was an undercurrent of acceptance and humour.

Michele let out a small groan of irritation allowing that humour to lead them both to more solid ground "I only want to _hug_ you, you giant oversexed, screwed up male. Boy you remind me of my husband at times. Not everything is a come-on. _Seriously_! Why does God insist on punishing me?" She whined.

"I remind you of your husband Hu?" His voice took on a playful speculative tone.

Michele snorted "Down boy or I'll whack your nose with a rolled-up newspaper. Lie down, close your eyes and be good."

"Kinky."

Michele smiled despite herself "Hush" she admonished softly picking up the Slinky Maliki Cat tales book and began reading.

"Slinky Malinki was blacker than black, a stalking and lurking adventurous cat..."

...

Nearly an hour later, Michele closed the book.

"Mitch?" Deans voice was drowsy and mostly asleep, he sounded very young.

"Hush, it's ok Dean, go to sleep."

He made a small contented sound and his breathing smoothed out again.


	49. Chapter 49 Communication with pictures

**Chapter 49**

Sam woke with a pounding head and a mouth that felt like he'd been breathing desert dust for a year.

Cracking his eyes hesitantly against the light leaking in from the hallway, he noted the bottle of Gatorade and the foil backed strip of Imitrex sitting by his bedside. Not Advil he noted, his brother the good fairy, had broken out the good stuff and to be honest it felt like he needed it. How much _had_ he drunken last night?

Most of the previous evening was a blur. Though the catalyst for it was still crystal clear.

After Mom had left the bunker, after they'd told her to leave, while the final slam of the outer door still echoed in his head, Sam had found Dean sitting in his room with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

In lue of discussing previous events, there had been a marathon of action movies on Netflix and whiskey.

Sam doubted if either one of them actually took in more than the general motion on screen. But the silent hours together, bolstered by that line of warmth from his brothers arm and knee, against his side, had been comforting in a way nothing else could be.

Dean had shamelessly medicated both of them with alcohol the previous night. And for once, Sam hadn't found it in himself to object against the course of action.

There was a vague memory, of half surfacing, becoming aware of being sprawled against his brother, of Dean calling him a lightweight and the intrusion of the sound and light ceasing.

 _"So damn sorry Sammy, ya don't deserve this."_ His brothers voice rasped in his memory, accompanying the memory of Dean manhandling him into bed. He'd been too far gone to respond, to tell his brother the same.

The ghost of a memory, the calloused hand brushing his hair back from his face as he settled into the pillow. One of those moments of tenderness Dean pretty much only allowed when one or other of them was too far gone to respond.

Sam took a shaky breath, the Gatorade and Imitrex were a sign Dean hadn't been so very far gone at the point he, Sam, had folded under the liquors weight.

So often Dean raced ahead of him, when they hit the bottle together keeping their inebriation rates pretty level. He'd half expected to wake to find Dean sprawled next to him or slumped uncomfortably in a chair close by, his guardian against night terrors.

But he had woken alone.

If Dean had deemed himself capable of driving without endangering the impala last night, he could be anywhere.

Kicking himself, Sam dragged upright, threw back the pills and downed the sports drink in hasty gulps.

Fighting the worry that twisted in his stomach along with the hangovers gift of nausea; Sam wondered uneasily whether he'd be getting a call to bail Dean out of jail... or hospital.

Too often his brother picked drunken bar fights against ridiculous odds in these circumstances. Dean had certain go-to moves, none of them were good. Sam knew that and yet he'd still allowed himself to be dosed and put to bed like a sick kid instead of being there to have his brother's back. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

When the younger Winchester forced his protesting body to surface and found his brother sprawled across his own bed, dead to the world, flat cell phone cradled loosely in a curled fist.

Sam thanked everything holy for small miracles, huffing out a small breath of relief while feeling almost dizzy at seeing Dean, unmarked by any self-destructive coping mechanism greater than alcohol.

Slipping the phone carefully out of his brothers grasp so he could charge it, Sam stared down at his older brothers sleeping face for a moment longer, memorising the picture of unguarded peace that would shatter the moment Dean woke.

 _"Please, just let him sleep_." He half prayed silently.

Why had their mother done this to Dean? Didn't she understand how badly her words the previous evening, the choices she'd made, would hurt Dean.

Hurt them both, Sam conceded. Trying not to dwell on his own feeling of abandonment and betrayal, because they seemed paltry compared to what Dean must feel.

It still seemed unfathomable that Mary could have been lying to them and working with the British men of letters _for months_.

It called so much into question ...

If she wanted to hunt so badly why had she left her sons to do it? Why were the British men of Letters preferable to the only family she had left? Did his mother blame him for her death? Was that why she couldn't bear to be with them. Had he once again, ruined Deans chances of happiness and stolen his mother?

She'd called the British men of letters way a better way, was she right? Were Toni Bevell's actions the symptom of a deeper disease within the men of letters, proof that the organisation couldn't be trusted or just one woman's insane actions?

Was it simply that neither he nor Dean could see past what they felt? Was the expected _normal_ response to suck it up and get over themselves? Sam couldn't tell anymore... Were they just acting like a couple of pouting children? Did she _really_ think her choices should change nothing? That they should be ok with her working with the British men of Letters?

Where did the failure lie? With them or their mother? How could she fail to understand their feelings, or were they just _unimportant_ in the grand scheme? Was this his fault, had they failed her? What were they supposed to have said or done when faced with the revelation? What was she thinking now? ...

The list went on endlessly, without an end in sight. The seesaw of flayed emotion verses attempts at logical thought.

Sam pushed the thoughts away roughly attempting to take a leaf out of his brother's book, as he made his way to the bunkers kitchen to start coffee, searching for something else. _Anything_ else to occupy his thoughts.

Sam opened his laptop staring listlessly as he watched it load up, uncertain what he was even doing.

They were at a dead end on finding Kelly, his hungover brain refused to provide him with any new avenues of inquiry and the last thing he wanted was to find another hunt today.

But doing nothing just gave him more time to chew over questions with no answers.

His eyes drifted to Skype, was it really only yesterday they'd sent Gavin back?

Opening the Skype conversation with Michele from the previous day Sam scrolled through yesterday's dialog, wanting to touch those light-hearted bantering moments again, as if he could roll back time. Take away the sour taste of today.

The fact she remembered _their_ version of time was intriguing. As if she was right, that there was something intelligent tying their prophet to them.

Sam shifted uneasily, feeling guilty, she wasn't _theirs_ , she wasn't some stray animal they'd found on the side of the road and adopted.

She had a life out there on the other side of the world, a husband and kids.

Her connection with them was slowly bleeding her dry, but it was like she didn't see that, instead of hating them she ... cared. Even when Dean was trying to be a jerk, especially when Dean was being a jerk.

His eyes lingered on those written gestures, her calling his brother an adorable brat, why couldn't their mother be like that, why did Everything have to be so difficult?

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam breathed out a small huffing breath through a throat tight with loss and longing, he looked away. Feeling guilty and disloyal. With a son like him, was it any wonder their mother had chosen the men of letters.

...

Michele flicked her eyes to the Skype box. She'd been working dutifully on catching up on her emails, for the past hour... well if she was honest she'd been catching up with her emails as an excuse to keep an eye out for her two lost boys.

Mostly Sam... she was pretty sure Dean would avoid her for a bit, after the previous night.

She knew Sam was hurting, with the same certainty she knew the sun rose in the morning and set at night. And she wanted so desperately to help him. She was pretty certain Sam needed to talk and despite being willing to burn the world and himself for Sam, Dean wasn't really equipped to give him that right now.

Seeing Sam log in loosened something inside her chest, but now she dithered uncertain.

Did she really have any right to open up that well of hurt, ask him to share it with her? Her knowledge of his life was illicitly earned, not freely given.

Didn't she invade his life enough? Would talking to her even help?

First of all, do no harm.

Michele bit her lip tapping her fingers nervously against the mouse wishing desperately to be more certain of what was _right._

Maybe if she just opened a communication line.

Her eyes came to rest on the replacement webcam her husband had finally bought the previous weekend but still hadn't gotten around to installing. Maybe the best way to start helping Sam was to get him to help her.

...

"Hey Sam, are you busy?"

"Not really" Sam typed back glad of the distraction.

"I don't want to interrupt anything, tell me to bug off if you want ... But... you're good with tech stuff yes? Do you think you could ... umm help me set up our new webcam? Please, please please, pretty please. I'm the world's biggest tech idiot and hubby's away. Mr 8 really wants to use it to chat to his cousins and play some computer game. -hopeful sad eyes-. Pwease Sammy."

Sam felt a half smile curve his mouth. Wow such a normal request, no monsters, no life or death, no end of the world pressure. Helping a friend puzzle through installing a webcam.

"Sure."

...

It didn't take long, Michele had swapped to voice using her phone a few minutes in.

"Well Sam," Michele said finally "if the hunter gig ever gets dull" there was a tone that declared dull wasn't likely "you'd be a great Helpdesk guy. Thanks so much for being patient. _Oh, for goodness sake, will you two just quit it for two minutes!"_ The last part was aimed at the toddler and cat that apparently both needed to be part of every step of the instillation, underfoot and into everything.

"So... uh, did you want to test it?" Sam asked uncertainly wondering if she'd ghost on him at the suggestion. He was aware that video chat was something she'd been avoiding.

Michele took a small breath like she was bracing herself "Of course we need to test it" she spoke quickly "you have _no idea_ what sort of wrath I'd face if I told Mr 8 I'd gotten it set up and it didn't work! Autism has no wrath like an 8-year-old promised electronics, then denied."

...

Michele rammed down her nerves and clicked the button. Found herself staring at Sam's image on the screen. She knew his face so well, but this was weirdly different than the visions. The feeling of him looking back was disconcerting. Eyes flicking between the small black eye of the webcam and Sam's face she bit her bottom lip nervously.

"So, it works?" She asked attempting to appear un-phased.

"Yeah... it really does." Sam's voice and face were hesitant his brow lined with a slight frown.

"So, I guess this is Hi from New Zealand."

Sam smiled with a show of dimples and looked down almost shyly. "Hi back from Kansas." He re-joined.

...

Sam studied the woman on the screen, his eyes tracing the shadows under her eyes and the way the freckles across her nose and cheeks showed in stark relief against her too pale skin. The physical signs of blood loss were easy to trace.

She was a couple of years older than Dean, but looked very young as she sat with the toddler held on her lap like a shield. Michele bit her lip and nudged her glasses up her nose, her big green eyes seemed to meet his and flinch away.

"So, it works?" She asked him earnestly.

"Yeah... it really does." He assured her feeling something settle slightly inside as he watched his friend on the other side of the world smile shyly at him.

They talked for a while about nothing much and he watched her relax incrementally, the toddler slipped down from her knee and wandered out of view, the cat leapt up and settled across her knees instead. Watching her simply sit and pet the cat was oddly mesmerising.

"Sam are you okay…. After lastnight?" Michele sighed quietly, her voice suddenly very serious and solemn, she frowned and fixing him with wide green kitten eyes that seemed to look inside him.

 _Shit!_ Sam swallowed uncomfortably, he knew what she was doing, had done it himself a million times. Earnest eyes, the soft understanding voice, the silence that begged to be filled.

 _She knew about Mom._

"You saw?" His voice was small, falling between numb lips. _Our prophet_ he thought.

Another small sigh and a nod.

 _"Ohhh Sam"_ there was pain and love in that voice, understanding and a touch of anger "I'm so sorry, you don't deserve this." He looked up at the screen _**"You don't deserve this."**_ she said again fiercely, as if it was the most important thing in the world, that he understand that.

He longed to believe her.

"Did... did you see inside her head? Do you uh ... know _**why**_...?"

A shaky inhale of breath whispered against his skin, and he watched a tear track down her cheek

"O-h sweet heart, I _wish_ I could give you answers that would make this all better, it's so completely unfair ... all I know is they are her choices, neither you or Dean deserve this. You have every right to feel hurt and betrayed."

"Maybe if we'd ..."

 **"No Sam!"** It was such a Mom voice, one that brooked no argument "don't you dare minimise what you went through with the men of letters or turn it around as another thing to feel guilty for, I'm sure your Mom has her reasons ... I don't know what they are and personally I don't think they're good enough" there was a slight bite in her voice "but..." Michele took a breath, steadying "But one thing I do know is, knowing another person's reasons for doing something... being logically able to follow them... that doesn't magically make things hurt less, make you feel less angry or betrayed. That takes time. So, cut yourself some slack okay?!"

It was strange, hearing that helped.

"Dean... Amara said Mom was the thing he needed most." He argued

"Hmph, no offended to her royal darkness but she also thought Dean would make a nice snack and sucked people's souls out... She might be Chucks sister but I've 38 years _more_ experience than her, give or take, with humanity ... _I'm_ pretty sure what Dean Winchester needs most is _**you."**_ she tilted her head slightly and shot him a grin "...and pie... _I mean seriously Sam, if she never mentioned pie how well could she possibly know him?"_


	50. Chapter 50 Listening

**Chapter 50**

"Sam what do you use a silver bullet soaked in holy oil, sage, and myrrh for?"

Sam stared at the words in the Skype box for a few minutes uncertain how to answer Michele's question. Finally, he decided on answering a question with a question.

"Did you have a vision?"

"Yeah, it wasn't much ... just you saying to someone they needed holy oil, sage and myrrh, that they needed to make a tincture and coat a silver bullet and then use a spell - which I couldn't read incidentally, because your writing is really messy Sam. You said it would mimic the original etchings...?"

"Michele, I don't know why we'd need that ammunition, it doesn't do anything without the Colt." Sam stared at the words he'd just sent, instantly regretting them.

Then wondered why he would find himself discussing making ammunition for the Colt in the mid to near future.  
It had been six years since they'd last seen Samuel Colts creation. Knowing the Colts whereabouts could be amazingly useful.

But... discussing that gun with Michele of all people, felt completely wrong, like he'd accidentally handed a toddler a venomous snake.

"The colt? Like only 5 things in all of creation it can't kill, the colt?"

"Shit" Sam swore with a groan yanking his hand back through his hair then shook his head feeling irritated with himself for the slip.

"Michele thanks for the heads up about what you saw, but..."

"Yeah I know, need to know. and i don't need to know."

Sam could almost hear an exasperated sigh behind the typed words, there was probably even a small pout on her face as well.  
Funny how spending that time watching her face over Skype the previous day filled in his mental picture.

Sam knew she wanted to know more, had seen it, and had seen her attempts to restrain her curiosity whenever their rambling conversation the day before had brushed against anything to do with hunting, but he had seen that small pout every time he had turned the conversation firmly away to safer ground.

He remembered that frustration when Dad and Dean had done the same thing to him.  
Their two-man battle to keep little Sammy as ignorant and innocent as possible while submerged in a sea of monsters.

It hadn't worked.

As it turned out he'd never been truly innocent, what with the demon blood pumping through him, in a way, he was the thing that had let the sea in.

Michele however, she _was_ innocent, kind and just plain nice and he'd do what he could to keep her out of their sea of supernatural crap, it was what was best for her.

At least she accepted it better than he had as a kid, he'd been a pain in the ass always picking and digging. Knowing there was more and wanting in on the secrets. Chaffing against the restraints Dad had set, going out of his way to find out, until it was too late and then when Dad had given in and he'd been neck deep... he'd wanted out.

"So how are you, really?" He looked at her question and rubbed his palm across his face, he'd almost forgotten this part about women, growing up round guys, the first time he'd really experienced it was at Stanford with Becky Warren ... and Jess. They wanted to know what was happening inside and 'I'm good' wasn't going to cut it.

"Still processing, you know. Can't seem to work out how I feel. Mom keeps texting... and I want answers, but I can't bear to read what she's got to say and every time I look at Dean... I'm just in knots. He never had a childhood because of me... I just can't ... this whole thing it's my fault."

"Stop blaming yourself for all the things that were **done to you,** Sam.  
Dean does not blame **you** for what happened in your childhood, he thinks you were the best and only thing he had to hold on to, he still does and he doesn't want you to feel like that. Never darling boy, please just try to see that. You know the sweetest and most frustrating thing about you boys is how selfless you are, you worry about him, he worries about you. Of course, you don't talk about it though, because you're Winchesters."

Sam felt his hackles rise a little, wanted to argue that Dean should blame him, then sighed out a breath because maybe she was right...

But ... the talk of selflessness makes him think of the thing that comes with Michele's visions and the worry that has moved into the back of his mind. Because ever since yesterday, he's been haunted by her too pale face, the realization that somehow it has sneaked up on him that she matters to him, to them... and she is fragile and breakable. Right now, with the feeling that maybe _this time_ they have lost Mom for good still so raw, the idea that maybe Michele is on borrowed time won't leave him alone.

"Michele don't you think it's time we seriously talked about your visions, the blood loss."

"Sam, what's there to talk about?"

"Let me talk to Cas, the way you bleed with the visions... it's not exactly sustainable, is it? We need to find out some way to fix it."

"The transfusions deal with the blood loss Sam. It's fine, really."

Suddenly Sam found himself completely furious with her. Needed her to hear his voice, understand how serious he was. He punched the button for voice.

"It's not _fine_!  
A _healthy_ , _fully grow_ n man can die from a nosebleed in _two hours_ , Michele. _Come on!_ "

"I _am_ fully grown Sammy, honestly, I'm just sorta bonsai." She tries to joke it off, just like Dean would, bringing out that part of him that needs to rip and tear and hurt, just like Dean does.

It's almost visceral how that feeling of losing something that matters flashes over into harsh words that come spilling out.

"How long _will_ it take for _you_ to bleed to death Hu? An hour? Half an hour? _20 minutes?!"_  
"You're worried about the _theoretical_ danger of being abducted by angels, I'm worried about the _very real danger_ of you bleeding out."  
"You say you love your husband and kids, _then don't fucking die on them!"  
_  
She makes a small hurt sound, "Sam... " she begins.

Yes, he knows it is underhanded he's worked out exactly how to wound her. But she needs to wake up and realize that this isn't a game.

"Sam... you make it sound like talking to Castiel will fix me, but it won't." Her voice is cringing and it drives him mad as she continues "Could he fix what Azazel did to you? No... And if I'm a prophet ... do you think there's some magic wand we can wave to de-prophet me?  
I _have_ to believe that I'm not gonna bleed to death, at least not until I've done what God put me here for."

"What _God_..." Sam finds himself spluttering in reply "Chuck _left_ Michele, he didn't _put you here_ for anything."

"You're _wrong_ Sam, God hasn't left, I don't believe that... I... I can't believe that." Her voice is stronger "The God I _know_ doesn't cut and run, He Loves us. He hasn't left us alone. Have you ever stopped to think that maybe 'Chuck' _isn't all_ that God is, that God is _more?_ That maybe you've never seen the big picture..."

"And you have?"

"I have _faith_ Sam. 'Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.'" The way she says it he knows it's a quote.

"Well if you're so sure of there being a bigger picture, a plan, then maybe you should trust that the bigger picture involves me finding a way to fix you. If you believe in this bigger than Chuck God, that loves us, show me how a loving God could expect me to sit by and watch my _friend_ bleed to death without at least trying."

"I'm not dying Sam, I'm not."

 _"You could though_. And I'm not going to let you, not without a fight. Without at least trying. I'd rather have you under angelic lock-down than dead. _Your husband and kids_ would too. You know I'm right."

The silence stretches between them.

"You know what Michele, I'm not asking for your permission anymore. I'm telling you how it's going to be."

Michele takes a shaky breath. "Sammy" she says in a small voice, barely more than a whisper "I don't ...I don't want to die, some days I'm so scared I'm going to... that my kids are going to grow up without a mother like... like you and Dean did." The confession is broken and painful "But what if the only way out of this _is_ for me to die ... or for you both to? I don't, I just do _n't_ ... want either of us to _know_ that Sam."

The confession drives the last vestiges of rage out of him. Because she's scared, she's scared they'll let her die... ? Or that they won't?

Sam swallows, wishing he could just do something _real_ to make this better, hating the small stifled sounds that say she's trying not cry, and probably failing.

"Hey, hey, hey. That's not going to happen. No one's going to die okay? We'll figure it out, we always do... you uh ... you know that. Because you're _our_ prophet. And uh…you've got that Pulitzer winning piece of literature to write." That dragged a watery snort of disbelief out of her. "Uh… come on Michele 'they all died' isn't your kind of ending, you write sandcastles and sea gulls. I believe … that we _can_ fix this. You just need to trust us and let us do what we do best... we save the girl."

Her slightly shaky laugh surprises him "Wow! So, _I_ get to be the girl of the week?" She asks drolly making him smile in relief, he hasn't pushed things too far, she seems to have stopped arguing. So maybe he's just won.

"By the way, my fic is so _not_ literature. I have it on great authority that Supernatural fanfiction is not literature." There's a weary smile to her voice.

...

There's a ringing sound.

"Oh, it's my hubby Sam, I better answer it or he'll dial 111 and I'll have an ambulance on the doorstep. Luv ya."

...

"Hello, is it me you're looking for?" Michele's voice sings the words.

"No, damn it, I was trying to call my mistress." a guy's voice answers.

"Oh well if that's the case I'll go talk with Sammy again." Michele says like the conversation is a game she's enjoying and Sam realises she doesn't know that Skype is still working. ' _So that's her husband_ ' Sam thinks, feeling vaguely voyeuristic but she appears to be talking about him. So, he keeps his mouth shut and listens curious. After all she spies on him and Dean all the time.

"So how are the transvestite PI and his vegetable hating brother today?"

"Sammy's mostly okay, things with their birth Mum are ...complicated, when someone comes back into their children's lives after more than 30 years, things are going to be rough. She doesn't understand them and she's made some crappy decisions. But they'll get through it... they're really decent guys." Sam frowns at the laptop in silence because it's recognisably his life with all the supernatural washed out of it. "He's been giving me pep-talks about looking after myself."

"The guy isn't so bad, even if he is a felon." The husbands voice holds no heat for the felon comment as if it's a snark along the same lines as the transvestite private investigator crack. "How is everyone else? Your fic kids and the stroppy redhead?"

Sam blinks and frowns. He's always sort of thought Michele treated him and Dean like a dirty secret. But here she is talking to her husband about him like he's normal people. That him and Dean somehow have an actual place in her life, he's uncertain how to take that.

"Your spawn are fine, madam one and two are being helpful, Mr Autism lost his fidget cube at school but someone found it for him, because he's blessed. And Mr two and troublesome scammed a walk to the service station for a lollypop out of me. As I said my American boys are getting there… Cat and Peaches, as always, _need to get more sleep_ , but they are young and not sleeping enough is pretty much a twenty something rite of passage. And my darling Cougar is trying to get me to read one of her racy fics on that other scary website. Again."

"And you said?"

"That I love her, but no thanks, my hubby's coming home tonight, so why would I want to _read_ about something racy when I can _do_ it?"

Her husband laughed dark and warm in the way all guys understand "That's _my_ girl!"

Sam cut the Skype call.

Hmmm yeah ... umm... he should probably go look for the info on the Colt, he wasn't totally certain he even _remembered_ the spell Bobby and Ruby had devised to replicate the original bullets properly. Apparently, he is going to need to write it down some time soon. Sam ran a hand through his hair and went to find it.


	51. Chapter 51 Calling all angels, ok just 1

**Chapter 51**

Sam closed another book frustrated, the men of letters collection didn't seem to have anything useful on prophets and he still didn't have any idea how to find Kelly Kline, he looked across the library and out to the map table where Dean was cleaning the guns in brooding silence.

It's been two days but Dean is still avoiding the topic of Mom, and Sam can tell by a million tiny things that he wasn't in a place where he could go there yet, not without it spilling over into some sort of physical fight. Which Sam wouldn't totally mind, occasionally giving and receiving a few bruises were the best thing they could do, to get past things.

But not this thing, Sam thinks with regret.

So, he leaves that topic alone for another day.

"Dean?"

His brother made a small sound in the back of his throat to indicate he was listening.

"I've been talking to Michele..." Deans shoulders tense and he became shock still, like an animal sensing a predator.

"Yeah? What tales has the seer of Hobbitsville got t' tell?" Dean's feigned nonchalance is near perfect, but the set of his shoulders say Dean's still poised in fight or flight mode, Sam saw through it and wondered why Dean couldn't just admit their New Zealand prophet was growing on him.

"Well, mostly, I told her... that she needs to quit screwing round... and uh, let us ... try fix her." Sam offered.

"Fix her?" Dean looked up, raised his eyebrows mockingly and shot him a shit eating grin "'bout time ya made an appointment with a vet, don't think your pet actually screws round Sammy, but 4 kids ... more than enough!"

Sam looked down at the book on the table, considered lobbing it at his dick of a brother's head. But the book's old and fragile so he shot him an unimpressed glare instead.

"Michele would probably say you need neutering more, Dean." Sam was surprised to see his brother flinch, clench his jaw and lift his chin slightly like he'd taken a hit, surely Michele's jibe the day she found out they were real didn't still sting?

"Besides having been worked on by a vet ...I don't recommend it..." the last bit, the reminder of Toni Bevell just slipped out, it led places Sam hadn't meant to go. Dean lips thinned as he completed reassembling the Taurus in his hands with a snap of his wrist. Rapping the gun down onto the map table with more force than necessary.

"Cas." Sam offered quickly "said we'd talk to Cas."

Dean picked up his favoured ivory handled Colt and began disassembling it without looking down.

"Mitch was down with that?" Dean asked, he laid the parts out neatly as he worked, exactly how Dad taught them.

"Not exactly... but. _She'll get over it_. Which is something she won't do if she bleeds out."

Dean chuckled humourlessly "Damn straight." He picked up the Colts slide and began cleaning it meticulously.

"So, how you gonna play this?" He queried.

Sam ran his palm over the books embossed leather bindings. Then looked across the intervening space at his brother. "Preferably without telling Cas too much... or anything, if that's possible."

"Really, Sam?" Dean sounded pretty offended on Cas's behalf. Then, his shoulders loosened, he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I guess we owe her a bit of discretion." He allowed, finally setting the slide back down and picking up the barrel and a cleaning rod.

"Cas isn't dumb though Sam, ya start asking about the proper care and maintenance of prophets or if there's one hanging out in New Zealand... Well, it's like when you got interested in how to look after a dog, when we we're kids... you only want that info if you've got one stashed in the woods Sammy. We can trust Cas, he isn't Dad an' he's not gonna make us take her to the pound. I'm not sure he'd give a damn about a stray prophet in the grand scheme of things. Kelly and Lucifer's kid, the end of the world, trumps, pretty much ... everything else."

"Yeah, yeah I know.

Man, I wish we had some way to track down Kelly or some better information about what we are actually facing with this kid...a ...a Nephilim tablet or something. It makes sense that one exists, right? Pity we can't find it."

"Yeah... Don't think Mitches prophet mojo extends to deciphering stone tablets though Sam... she seems more like Chuck."

"Chuck wasn't a prophet though" then something occurred to him, an amused chuckle broke past his lips "her name ... Michele... it means 'who is like God.'"

"Well, that's ironic. How do you even know that Sam? Is that what you two kids do? Sit and paint your nails over chat and google the meaning of each other's names." Dean sniggered mockingly.

"I just remember stuff 'Mr Valley' or my personal favourite, 'Mr leader of ten men' - you never quite lived up to your potential Jerk." Sam noticed a pen lying on the desk and fired it at his brother for good measure.

Dean caught it and tossed it back lazily "Whatever 'Mr God has heard' - mainly cos _you_ never shut up, I might add. 'Sides you're enough trouble to be equal to ten dudes Sam."

...

"This is my voice mail, make your voice... a mail"

At the sound of Cas's gravelly voicemail message Sam felt a half smile twist his mouth. Cas still had a lot to learn about passing for human.

"Hey Cas, its Sam. Look I was thinking maybe we could take a different tack trying to track down Kelly. If there was an angel tablet and a demon tablet, a leviathan tablet... then... _maybe_ there's a Nephilim tablet out there somewhere too.

So, what I was wondering was ...is there an active prophet out there. If we could track her ...or ...or _**him**_ down _..._ maybe they could lead us to this theoretical Nephilim tablet... I know, it's a long shot, but any or _all_ info you can give us about prophets or potential prophets, uh ... how they work, well it could be useful. Get back to me when you can, okay? Thanks Cas."

...

Sam sat staring at his laptop without truly seeing anything, long fingers restlessly stacking and unstacking the red and black painted map-marker rings like they were poker chips in a high stakes game.

His eyes drifted to his cell phone, another day and another unread message from Mom.

As time went on from her disclosure, Sam found it harder to hold on to his reasons for refusing to read them. They'd worked with _Lucifer_ to stop Amara for frickssake, maybe Mom was right about the British men of letters... personal feelings needed to be put aside.

And he could, he could put aside his feelings ... it was Deans feelings that chaffed at him. That was where he floundered...

Because Amara said Dean needed Mom. But since she had returned, it almost seemed like her purpose was to tear apart and trample any bit of Deans self-worth and peace of mind he had left intact by Dad's broken parenting, heaven and hells schemes, Sam's failures and Winchester luck.

Yesterday Dean had cleaned all the guns, sharpened every knife they owned (including all the ones in the kitchen) washed every vehicle in the bunker, cleaned out the fridge and scrubbed every surface in the kitchen.

Sam knew the constant activity was Deans way to avoid thinking about Mom. He drank steadily, switching between irritable and surly over pointless things, to over the top devoted helicopter nanny.

Dean was as usual, trying to act like nothing was bothering him, his constant activity and bipolar moods told another story.

They needed to talk about things with Mom. Find a way to deal with the fallout, together. Whether Dean liked it or not, which, of course he would not.

Sam jumped at the sound of his brother's footsteps and flipped his cell phone screen down.

"Dead guy in Akron. Body found two days ago. Throat ripped out, ear-to-ear." Dean announced without preamble plunking down his own laptop in front of his brother.

"Well, good morning to you, too." Sam offered drolly.

"Read it." Dean ordered, face serious.

Sam nodded with a huff and pulled the laptop towards him. He didn't get far into the Cleveland Globe article before he realised, that what Dean had brought him in no way constituted a case.

"The guy was a-a known drug dealer with enemies. His throat wasn't ripped out. It was slit with a knife. I'm not really sure this is our kind of thing." He informed his brother carefully.

Dean shook his head "We don't know that." Dean argued stubbornly. "His blood could've been drained."

"It could've been?" Sam couldn't repress an eye roll.

"You know what?" The elder Winchester grated irritably "You find us a case. Cos I need to hit something." Dean slammed his laptop shut in frustration "Now."

Sam wiped his lips and shut his own laptop, _and here was the opening for the all-important Mom discussion._

"You wanna talk about it?" He asked.

"Not really." Dean closed his eyes, ran his knuckles across his brow lightly. Sam waited. "What was she thinkin', man?" He asked finally.

"I don't know." Sam took a small breath "Maybe we should ask her?" He offered meeting his brother's eyes.

"What?" Dean flared looking almost stunned by the suggestion.

"Look I-I'm pissed and – and frustrated and confused, too. But we've frozen her out for days."

"She lied to us, Sam." Dean stated eyes sparking with outrage.

"I know."

"For months."

"I know... but it's Mom! I mean, whatever she was doing, she must've had a good reason." Sam entreated.

"A good reason? A good reason for working with those ass clowns?"

"Look, I hear you, all right?" Sam found himself arguing placatingly "But – but at the end of the day, she's family. We owe it to her to at least –"

"All right, you know what? Screw it. I need a drink." Dean announced grabbing his jacket.

"You–" _Just for once_ could Dean just face things without running to the nearest bar? Sam sighed heavily.

"No, I need drinks. Plural." _Apparently not_.

Sam glanced at his watch wanting to make comment on it being too early to start drinking, but rubbed his forehead agitatedly, letting out a small exasperated huff instead.

Dean stopped as if he'd heard every pissed word Sam had repressed.

"And this whole peacemaker shtick that you've been running, first with Cas, now with Mom, it's getting old, man." Dean pronounced.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam found himself demanding.

"You're always playing the middle, Sam. For once, why don't you pick a side?" Dean clumped up the stairs and out the door without a backwards glance.

 _He had picked a side!_

Stung, Sam watched his brother go. Wondering if Dean had meant to level _exactly_ the same accusation at Sam, that he'd once levelled at Dean. All those years ago. Then, Sam had meant that comment to hurt, to cut his big brother to the bone.

Sam took a few breaths. And yes, it hurt now. But it also reminded Sam of something he'd come to realise only too late and had never said to his brother.

Dean had been right.

Dean had hated that endless tearing and biting between him and Dad, the need to be Switzerland. But he'd done it, kept the balance and tried to hold the peace, because it had been best for not just the family, but Sam in the long run. Just like he hadn't begged Sam not to go to Stanford, because for all that it had cost, Dean had truly believed it was what Sam needed and wanted.

Dean was angry, furious, at Mom for working with the British men of letters for _two_ _specific reasons._ One was for ignoring what Toni Bevell had done to Sam. The other was what had almost happened to Cas, on the job the Brits had set them up on. Because Dean would forgive anything done to him. But not hurting _his_ people.

Because family was everything to Dean ... But Mom _was_ his people too, their family... So, at the end of the day just like when Dean was pissed at Cas, they needed to work it out.

Sam picked up his phone, gazed at the notification that he had 6 unread messages from Mary.

After a moment's hesitation, he clicked. And ran his eyes over the messages from the past 3 days.

 _3 days ago_

Sam, please give me a chance to explain.

 _2 days ago_

Sam?

 _Yesterday_

Can we please talk

 _Yesterday_

I'm sorry.

 _3 hours ago_

Please answer your phone

 _Now_

Sam - we need to meet. It's urgent.

His eyes landed on the last message, wavering indecisive.


	52. Chapter 52 The raid

Chapter 52

Sam shifted uneasily in the drivers seat of his SRT8 Dodge Charger, the sleek black vehicle was comfortable and economical yet Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd actually driven it. Dean always referred to it as "your plastic piece of crap" it was the one vehicle in the bunkers garage Dean seemed to actively dislike; though Sam couldn't escape noticing his brother had washed and polished it during his auto-care binge.

If Sam was honest he didn't really like the car that much either, save the small reminiscence of Bobby, who had gotten it rebuilt after it had been totaled by falling angels, instead of leaving it to rust out in the Singer Salvage yard. This car reminded him uncomfortably of the year that he had been soulless.

The memento of the things he had done during that time still brought the unnerving sensation of emotional Novocaine and the taste of bile and shame to the back of his throat. Cars weren't Sam's thing but he couldn't escape some of the elder Winchesters bent rubbing off on him. The impala was the Winchesters heart and true home, carrier of their memories, with its Lego bricks stuffed in the air vents, plastic army man wedged in the ashtray and their initials carved in the back.

This car was everything the impala wasn't, it was economical, modern (well it had been 6 years ago) slick, cold and slightly in your face. It wasn't a car that went unnoticed, it drew people's eyes in a way even the impala didn't.

With his soul returned, driving it always made Sam feel self conscious, hunching his shoulders against the pressure of the imagined scrutiny it drew.

Between the memories this car brought up, his purpose and destination Sam felt totally off balance. He'd spent most of the drive debating if he was making a mistake, trying to sort out his muddled emotions.

And now here he was, at the address Mary had given him. Razor wire and security camera topped chain-link fences plastered with "quarantine" and "danger do not enter" signs every 10 feet, hemmed him in. Black clad security personnel in a guard house eyed him with flat curiosity.

When he realized he was driving into the British men of Letters lair and not some random abandoned industrial compound, it shot a sick slide of panic down his spine. Suddenly he wished he hadn't come here alone, leaving only an unhelpful note for Dean that read "Went out back later."

With a few quick swipes he enabled the GPS tracking on his phone and slipped it down the side of his seat.

Not that he didn't trust Mom, it was just a precaution.

His mother stood waiting beside the security check point.

His mother walked towards him as he stepped out of the car, stopping a few feet away and frowned up at him.

"Thanks for coming."

"What's so urgent?" He asked hands in pockets, not meeting her eyes.

Mary licked her lips trying to catch his eyes "Sam, I messed up. I know I messed up." For a second he gave her the eye contact she was seeking, searching her face, there wasn't really any regret in Mary's denim blue eyes "But what the British Men of Letters are doing," Sam swallowed and looked away his eyes burning "this is bigger than us, Sam. We've got a real shot here." She continued face earnest and slightly passionate.

Sam took a small breath, shook his head, shrugged his shoulders helplessly "Shot at what?" He asked quietly, brow furrowed.

"A world without monsters. A world where you and Dean don't have to hunt, where you can have normal lives." And once that would have been all the carrot he needed, his mother and the idea of normal, a dream come true. But that was a long time ago.

He felt his lips pull up in an apologetic smile that was mostly a grimace "I chose this life." And he realized he truly meant it. _Hu_.

"I know." Mary looked down then back at him "But you were going to school, to college. And I get why you gave it up. But what if you didn't have to? What if there was a different future for you, for us?" Sam swallowed, maybe it was driving the Dodge Charger again, but his mind flitted to Lisa and Ben, his brother's year of normal. He'd long ago given up the idea of becoming a lawyer. Knew that wasn't a dream he wanted anymore... But Dean with a family and a kid, not dying bloody...

"That's why I'm doing this." Mary continued "That is what I'm fighting for. I am not trying to recruit you," Mary backed towards the guard house "but you need to know. Things are changing. Please." Mary lay her hand on a sensor pad and the gate slid open, Sam found himself following her "Just let me show you." She said softly.

...

Sam found himself assessing and sizing up the British men of letters setup, the buildings might be made of stacked shipping containers, but he couldn't deny the air of money, organisation, purpose and efficiency

"Wow." He muttered quietly. _This is what hunting looked like on a corporate scale, walls of flat screen displays and ergonomically designed office chairs. It was like something out of an action movie._

"Believe it or not, this is just their temporary base. The Brits talk like they're roughing it." Mary informed him casually.

Mick Davies looked up from some report or other and saw them, made a beeline for them

"Sam Winchester!" The shorter man greeted enthusiastically, looking across at Mary "You didn't tell me your son was stopping by." He chided.

"Didn't know I had to." Mary answered defensively.

"Anyway, welcome." Mick stuck out his hand to shake, Sam eyed it flinchingly, ignored it and looked away.  
Mick folded his fingers back on themselves and let his arm fall to his side. Mary looked down as if embarrassed by her sons uncouth behaviour.

"Yeah, um, you know, I really dig the whole low-budget Mission Impossible vibe, but I'm gonna head back." He informed both, he shot them a smile that was more of a twitch and a nodded to himself uncomfortably.

"You sure? You're just in time for the briefing." Mick asked with disarming smile and a small head tilt that brought Cas to mind.

"Mick." Mary warned

"I mean, that is, if you wanna hear how we're gonna exterminate every last vampire in America." Mick spoke drolly as he looked up into Sam's eyes.

...

Sam found himself attending the briefing. Knowledge was power after all.

While he'd made a stand by not taking a seat at the conference table, what he heard of Phase One of Project V: Their mission to exterminate every vampire in America, amazed him.

They had started by focusing on the Midwest, and of the 241 vampires there, to hear them tell, they've killed all but 11. Tomorrow, they were intending to head to the Morest Motel, in Wichita, Kansas and wipe out the remaining Midwestern vampires. Before starting on the rest of America.

Sam could feel himself beginning to understand how his Mother could believe the British Men of Letters might actually achieve their goal, of a world without monsters.

…Right up until the point when the British Men of Letters compound had come under attack from a force of vampires, the same force the Men of Letters had blithely intended to wipe out the next day.

The Men of Letters black clad security detail had been wiped out like a field of wheat before a harvester. If it hadn't been for the three American hunters they wouldn't have even managed to shut and lock all the central compound doors.

…

Sam eyed the bound vampire he had collected in his travels, wondering how much info he could get out of him.

"Doors locked?" Pierce demanded.

"For now." Mary answered gazing angrily at the vampire in front of her.

"The rest, they're spreading out, surrounding the building." Anton informed them tensely.

"How'd they find us? How'd they even know who we are?" Mick demanded.

The captured vampire laughed "He told us. He's back to save us all. Our father."

"Your father? The – the Alpha?" Sam asked.

"No, that's impossible." Serena said smoothly in her English accent "Our Intel has him in – in Morocco. He's been there for at least a decade."

Sam favoured Serena with a look, "Wrong." He informed her "I met him five years ago in Hoople, North Dakota." Mick met his eyes in disbelief.

"You're dead. You're allll dead." The vampire chortled mockingly.

Right up until the point Mary decapitated him.

The Men of Letters team looked horrified. Sam ground his fingers across his face feeling weary and wishing Dean were there with him.

While it had been _almost_ satisfying to work with his mother, to see her in action, to have evidence that she was a fully capable hunter, he missed Deans levity in the face of disaster, the ease of falling into line behind one of Dean's madcap, but almost always, genius battle plans.

"Your, uh, extermination plan, did it have any contingencies for _this_?" He asked with a sweeping gesture.

"No." Mick answered, almost desperately.

Sam rolled his eyes heavenwards with a huff of exasperation, of course not! They were a bunch of stuffed suits and big brains, not hunters that got their hands dirty.

"Comm's still out. What about a scrying spell? If we can get a message to England –" Serena spoke rapidly.

Sam rubbed his temples feeling the beginning of a tension headache, his mind flashed to Dean, but his phone was in the car and Dean was over an hour away, at best "No, we can't wait for backup."

"No, he's right." Mary agreed with him "This place was not built for defence, and those doors, will not hold long." Mary covered her eyes trying to think "Okay... Who here has ever killed -anything?" None of the remaining Men of letters team moved, they simply looked helpless.

 _Yeap, only the three American hunters - fancy that!_ Sam found himself thinking snarkily.

Mary sighed heavily "Great." She muttered.

"All right we gotta arm up. Everybody, weapons on the table. Blades, guns, spells..." Sam looked down at the meagre offering "Is this it?"

"Yeah." Mick offered apologetically.

"That's not enough." Mary grated.

"Most of our weapons are in the Armory, including the AVD." Anton offered, gesturing beyond the locked door.

"We could set it off in the vents. Maximize coverage, use the gas like the bug bomb."

"Will that kill the Alpha?" Mick questioned.

"Kill? Doubt it. Hurt? Maybe. You got anything stronger?" Sam asked, somewhat sarcastically.

Behind Sam's back Mary and Mick shared a loaded glance.

"Where is it?" Mary demanded suddenly.

...

Mick lifted the metal case onto the table, entered the combination and flicked open the catches.

Lying on a soft piece of moccasin, was The Colt.

For a second, to Sam, it was like the universe fractured and reformed around him.

He'd been told, Michele had warned him and now here it lay.

He exhaled sharply.

Being warned did not lessen the emotional impact, of seeing the gun, tied to so many jagged memories.

He reached out and pulled it from the case, mouth working soundlessly.

He exhaled again reining himself in.

"Where'd you get this?" He demanded, turning to Mick for explanation. Mick opened his mouth to answer.

"I stole it." Mary cut in.

Sam turned, wide eyes finding his mother's face.

"From Ramiel." She finished.

Sam felt himself rock towards his mother in shock.

Begging for her to somehow take it back.

It was like a kick in the guts, white noise filled his head as the implications of those words swept in, threatening to drown him.

"Yeah, but it doesn't work. We've no bullets." Mick cut in, bringing Sam roughly back to the situation at hand.

Sam took another breath, nodded to himself; as he pushed the emotion of this, newest, old betrayal away "Right. Right." He dragged in a breath through a nose that seemed stuffed with a little boy's tears.

"Right," his eyes danced back and forth "um Okay! We make some, then." Sam snatched up a pad and scrawled the spell "Got the recipe from my buddy." He informed them.

"Bobby Singer?" Mary asked.

"Yep." He answered shortly "All right, Mick, you're gonna need holy oil, sage, and myrrh. Do you have that here?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, uh, make a tincture, coat a silver bullet. Use this spell… It'll mimic the original etchings." It was like a moment of second-hand Deja vu, like he was reading a script.

His eyes flicked down to the pad in his hands as he passes it to Mick and felt a small pull of humour, because Michele had been right, his writing _was_ messy.

"And that'll work?" Mick asked.

"It better. If not, start praying, 'cause we'll need a miracle." He spoke the words almost as an offering to Michele's bigger than Chuck God.

"Where's the Armory?"

"I'll take you."

"I got your back." Pierce offered

"Get to work. Keep that door locked." Sam threw over his shoulder.

...

At the end of it all, as Sam followed the impala home to the bunker in his 'plastic piece of crap car,' that the vampires seemed to approve of as much as Dean did. And had expressed by keying it all along one side.

When he thought about things, with his over tired brain churning somewhat uselessly, he found himself unable to trace the trajectory of events with any clarity.

That Mary had stolen the Colt from Ramiel, nearly bringing about Cas's death. But...without which, they probably would have died.

That Michele had led him to refresh his memory of the spell that forged the Colts ammunition, without which... they would have died.

That Peirce, an American hunter, had been working for the Alpha vampire, brought to mind Toni Bevell's questions and accusations, like the stab of broken ribs.

The dance of diversion he, Mick and Mary had played getting the bullet into the Colt and consequentially into the Alphas head.

The surprise of seeing Dean and Ketch screech into the British Men of Letters compound, together.

The surprise Dean showed, at seeing Sam there.

Dean's admission that, when he knew Mary was in danger, nothing else had mattered. Something that made Sam simultaneously relieved, hopeful... and almost jealous.

Agreeing to work with the British Men of Letters, because at the end of the day the Alpha Vampire was dead, and they _were_ changing the world.

That maybe, he could let himself believe that a world without monsters mightn't be a pipe dream.

Asking Mick to give him time to get Dean on board.

Right now, thinking about it all, was over-rated, all he wanted was a hot shower, some food and to sleep for about 12 hours.

Tomorrow was another day.


	53. Chapter 53 The other Hobbit and lies

**Chapter 53**

"I'm going to assume that Hobbits and lying to your brother are linked in your head."

"Uh?" Sam replied inelegantly, feeling edgy.

Michele raised an eyebrow looking directly at her webcam on the other side of the world, "Frodo?" She queried mildly.

Ah, so she knew about Mick Davies and the Men of Letters, she was possibly right about the psychology behind the code name he'd used.

Psychology, cause and effect, Michele had a thing for it, said having an autistic kid she spent half her life trying to work out the _**why**_ of what set the kid off, decode it for next time.

Sam huffed a breath "Your point being?"

Michele bit her lip looked down uncomfortably "Sam I don't know how to put this, I'm not ...I'm not speaking as a prophet or anything... I'm speaking as..." she sighed, looked uncertain and shook her head "look Sam, lying to Dean... Especially now. About working with ... _them_ ... come on! Surely you can see the kind of damage it will cause if/when he finds out."

"You had a vision?"

"No Sam, not of Dean finding out, just of you agreeing to work with" she pulled face "uh Frodo... all I'm saying is ... that it's better to confess your treasons than get caught in the middle of them. You and I both know Deans not dumb, he'll find out eventually. The longer it goes on... the worse the fallout."

"And if I don't tell him, you will, is that it?" He demanded resentfully.

Michele blew out a long breath that ruffled her bangs and muttered something under her breath.

"I didn't catch that."

"I said 'you know nothing Jon Snow'"

"Meaning?" His voice had taken a hard, flat tone.

"I always took it to mean ' I love you, but you're an idiot.'" She smiled a rueful smile "Sam you're a _very_ smart guy, but you're also dumb, I'm _only_ putting my two cents in because I'm worried about Dean _**finding out,**_ instead of _**you telling him**_ **."**

Sam sighed studying the earnest face on the screen, he knew she was trying to help. She was _always_ trying to help.

It was exhausting dealing with someone so optimistic, bright and shiny.

Sometimes he just wanted to pick her up and shake her, scream at her, slap her around a bit, until she understands the darkness in the world - in him, that she should hate him, that there are no happy endings and that God has left the building.

Other times he wants to buy a time-share in her head. Let himself believe in everything she says.

It was so much easier before the fucking webcam, he wished she'd stop looking at him with those big earnest eyes that said, 'I know you want to do the right thing.' Wished she'd quit trying to be his own personal Jiminy Cricket.

Instead he changed the subject.

"You watch Game of Thrones?"

"Yes, ... but I actually read the books before HBO made it trendy. I'm still waiting for George R.R Martin to quit attending conventions, making political statements and generally mucking round and... you know ... _get on and write 'Winds of Winter._ ' What Martin needs is a dose of what I've got. Writers deadlines with consequence..." Michele stopped and scrubbed her knuckles restlessly against her lips "Not that I'd _really_ wish this on anyone."

And there it was. That _look,_ the one that Sam still couldn't quite decipher.

It made him aware that while she's very good at decoding him, knows chunks of his past from reading Chucks books, sees bits of his future, is always just sort of there. He doesn't really know this woman, oh he knows lots of information about her... but it's not the same thing.

"I guess I don't really know you, do I?"

"You don't?" She looked perplexed "I guess, no one really knows someone else completely Sam, that's the tragedy of the Tower of Babel." Her fingers slid to her throat, played with the cross, wedding and engagement rings strung on the chain around her neck, they jingled softly and Sam found himself wondering what she meant by 'the tragedy of the Tower of Babel', he opened his mouth to ask.

"God knows us though." She said the four words like she's offering him something, her smile sort of hopeful.

Sam shut his mouth, tried to remember if it was true, had Chuck really know him?

"I don't know if you're right Michele" he found himself answering carefully, (he always _tried_ to be careful with her over the God stuff) "but He does make really good pancakes." He ventured giving her an ill-fitting smile in return.

There was a rap on his bedroom door.

"Hey Sam..." Dean walked into the room without an invite and stopped.

"She's got a webcam?" The way Deans voice rose at the end of the sentence made Sam feel sort of smug, with the thought he was also grateful for the interruption. Sam pushed his chair back from the desk and glanced at his older brother noting the way Deans face was carefully impassive.

"Yeah, she got it what a week and a half ago?" He looked back to the screen for confirmation.

Michele sat up straighter and swallowed like she was nervous "About that, the day after your Mom told you about working…" she trailed off "You've been avoiding me since, Dean…" she looked to one side with a small frown.

"Haven't been avoidin ya Mitch, jist didn't think ya wanted t' talk t' me… all things considered." Dean sat down on the corner of his brother's bed "So, what're you two crazy kids talkin about?"

"Game of Thrones, whether anyone can know anyone else, and Chucks pancakes." Sam supplied.

"You watch Game of Thrones Mitch? Isn't that a bit hard core for you?"

Michele made an amused sound.

"She read the books too Dean."

"So, you're a geek like Sam? Did _you_ spend all of last season bitching how 'that's not what happened in the book'?"

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother "I said it like four times, Dean."

Michele laughed and flicked her hair back over her shoulders "I don't know if I bitched per say, but I probably said it a _heck of a lot_ _more than four times_ , quit picking on your brother Dean."

Suddenly, Sam found Dean leaning over his shoulder, looking at the laptop screen intently.

"Is that a hickey on your neck Mitch?" Dean crowed, in exactly the same tone of voice he'd used on Sam during their teenaged years.

Hectic colour rouged Michele's cheek bones as she dropped her face and hunched in on herself.

"Dean!" Sam tipped the chair back so it hit his brother in the solar plex.

Michele straightened, she lifted her chin then looked directly into the webcam "Sam, it's okay" she favoured them with a half-smile that showed a flash of sharp teeth.

"I don't need you to fight my battles. Yes, Dean it's a hickey. Because, this might surprise you, but married people have sex. Lots of sex, probably more sex than you do. I like sex, I think sex is fun, sometimes it's also sorta humorous too. For me sex is not cheap or a spectator sport. It's something precious that belongs to me and my husband.

I don't have to get anyone drunk or lie to get laid. All I have to do… is look at my husband too long or something… that's his story." Michele smiled a smile that wasn't aimed at either Winchester "We have been married for 11 years, raised 4 kids together, and I'll be the first to admit I'm not Miss Universe. But my husband still wants _me_ , he's not just going through the motions or just doing his duty, sometimes he gets a little over enthusiastic, which is sorta embarrassing …. But I'm also sort of proud of it too." She tilted her head "Hickeys _are_ kinda trampy though" she muttered with a rueful shrug.

Sam looked round at his brother, Deans face was priceless.

Sam snorted in mirth, drawing his brother's eyes, the look on Deans face submerged without a ripple.

Deans lips twitched slightly, his eyebrow raised fractionally. It was the look that said, _"Could have warned me what I was getting into there, Sam."_

He answered with a micro-shrug that replied, _"Hey I'm sure I_ _ **have**_ _warned you, you don't take advice and do stupid shit, so you're on your own bro, I don't want a piece of that."_

A small lift of Deans chin _"Thanks for nothing, Bitch."_

"Speaking of marriage did Sammy tell you about our last case?" Dean asked, his fingers gripped Sam's shoulder for a moment before her returned to his previous place on Sam's bed. Ahh pay back.

"Not really, just that it was a cursed object. I didn't have any visions, so I assume you managed to stay out of trouble."

"I wouldn't go that far" Dean sniggered "Sam, Mr smooth got caught under the brides' skirt at the reception and the grandmother of the bride hit him with her handbag." Dean crowed.

Sam sighed he didn't want to talk about cases with Michele, he didn't want to discuss that case with her. But if he let Dean tell it… Yeah not a good idea.

"It was a cursed blue garter." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and huffed long sufferingly "something old, something blue and something borrowed… a catholic family with lots of daughters and nieces getting married using the thing. It must have been in the family for generations.

It umm caused the guys who caught it to do something unpleasant to themselves."

"Balls Sam, it caused the guys who touched it to cut off one of their balls."

"Thanks Dean, I'm sure Michele didn't need those details. And it wasn't _all_ the guys that caught the garter. Rowena said the spell was only designed to affect _'men of ill repute'_ and only with direct skin contact."

"Fricking witches." Dean muttered darkly.

"That was…" Michele bit her lip, looked almost like she was in pain and thinking very hard "Brave Sam…" she said finally.

"Brave Mitch?! He ran from grandma like a scared little girl." Dean mocked.

"Occasionally 'retreat is the better part of valour.' For both of you. He got the job done didn't he Dean? Made sure no _'men of íll repute'_ touched it. I'm not wrong, am I? …." Michele smirked, and the words _'especially you'_ went unspoken but not unheard "Sam was brave to do it, and you were smart _not to._ And I'm glad you're both back in one piece. _"_

"So that's the story of our stint as wedding crashers…" Sam's forehead wrinkled unhappily "your wedding is supposed to be the happiest day of your life, isn't it?"

"Sam" Michele laughed "lighten up! For my wedding, one of our daughters gave me an early wedding gift …a dose of stomach flu, I woke up that day with a migraine, spent the service feeling like crap and can barely remember it truth be told... Then I vomited all over the floor entering the restaurant for the reception. In front of everyone… Management of the restaurant wanted to kick me out of my own wedding reception for health reasons.

We've got this great photo of one of my best friend mopping up puke… its epic, and mortifying. Quite a few of the guests decided they were possibly attending a shotgun wedding. Which was" She snorted and rolled her eyes "since I would have made a good dragon snack. True love waits and all that." Her eyes took on that steely look. "Don't say it Dean!" She admonished before continuing. "Our wedding reception, for me was an exercise in smiling grimly and not puking.

We've got this red bowl, it was a wedding gift, it went on honeymoon with us, it's the designated family puke bowl, to this very day.

My wedding night was hot… because I was running a really high fever. Three days later hubby came down with it… We promised in sickness and in health… we followed through. If that was supposed to be the happiest day of my life I'd have been screwed… But the story of our wedding is one of the stories of our life… for some reason the kids love hearing it, looking back on it now, it makes me laugh …because when things start like that there's nowhere to go but up.

One day that couple will probably have kids and I bet the story of the handsome tall man stealing mummy's garter at the wedding reception and great grandma chasing him and whacking him with her purse will become a humorous family story."

An alarm went off.

"And that my American friends is the alarm that tells me I gotta go drag one boy out of bed and toss him in the car so I can go fetch the other boy from school.

As my Dad always says _'Be good, and if you can't be good, be careful'_."


	54. Chapter 54 Sparking on all cylinders

**Chapter 54**

Michele lay on the hospital bed, starring morosely at the vermillion line of tubing that led to the IV buried in the crook of her right elbow from the bag of blood suspended above the bed. It would take an hour for the bag of blood to drain into her body. Then she could get on with her life. The inside of her left arm was a mess - all the needles and injections (taking blood out to see if it was time to put blood in, clotting factors, infusions of erythropoietin to encourage her body to make more red blood cells ( _'there go my chances of winning tour de France')_ blood for cross matches, and of course the top up transfusions that were getting to be pretty much a regular thing.)

The inside of her left arm looked like it belonged to a hardcore druggie. So, they'd moved onto her right, begun the process of evening her up.

These days she wore long sleeves to hide the needle marks and bruises that marked up her skin, to avoid the _looks._

Judgement or pity, people who thought they knew her story. But hey, long sleeves weren't so much of an issue because she was _**always**_ _**cold**_ _,_ really it wasn't worth whinging about. She tried to find acceptance, tried to be a good sport ...

Michele turned her eyes away and stared at the wall as the nurse bustled in, put a thermometer in her ear again, took her blood pressure again and bustled out. Again.

Today she wasn't in the mood for the usual pointless social noises, or the lies of omission. Today there was a resentful insane part of her that might just say things she'd regret. She could just imagine it. Answering the glances that said

' _Hey why do you need this blood anyway?'_

With something like

 _'Well, there's no scientific backing for it, but I seem to have been drafted as the prophetic biographer for a couple of monster hunters on the other side of the world._

 _Unexplained side effect may include visual disturbances, blood loss, blinding migraines, the worry that I'm totally insane and the knowledge that monsters exist. Not to mention the guilt that I'm sort of living a lie.'_

Michele imagined the nurse responding with complete droll acceptance and saying something like

 _'That's nice dear, is the pay good?'_

Replying with a snarky tired

 _'No, it bloody well isn't, (get it bloody?) you'd think I'd at least get an inside line on some lotto numbers for my trouble. But no-o! Could be worse though, you think my deals bad you should see the poor saps I'm biographing for.'_

Yeah nah, better to stare at the wall in silence, brood about how she'd ended up being catty to Dean, _again,_ the previous afternoon.

He brought out the worst in her, that was for sure. Afterwards she regretted it. Because underneath all his outer BS there was someone else... she saw that man through his brother's eyes. Had tasted Dean's inner workings, on the occasions when her visions rammed her past his shields and into his head. Dean Winchester was a paradox, forged of shards of adamantium but broken and fragile.

And sometimes he gave himself away.

 _"Haven't been avoidin ya Mitch, jist didn't think ya wanted t' talk t' me… all things considered."_

 _Oh Dean!_

She liked him _really_ , admired him, loved him ( it might be almost against her will at times, thanks to Sam, but it was love, and who wouldn't love Dean Winchester the hero... it was Dean Winchester the pushy overwhelming prick that she objected to.) Saw echoes of her sons in him, wished she could somehow take away all his childhood hurt, even understood what all those women saw when they fell into his bed (knew those women were as interchangeable and disposable as paper cups, too of course...)  
But, arghh! He always ended up pushing her past that invisible "do not cross" line, he ruined her balance and control, turned her into the 'class-A' bitch she usually reserved for evil school principals or people that hurt her fragile green eyed son. He shoved her into fight or flight mode and she invariably chose fight, much to her shame.

Talking with Sam was usually easy, she could see where she was going with Sam. Even when he got defensive. (She knew she'd pushed it with him the previous day. Lecturing a Winchester on lying, it was a bit like lecturing a fish on drinking too much water.)  
But for the most part, things with Sam were logical and reasonable - comfortable even. Sam got pushy at times, she got pushy too. The situation wasn't normal or comfortable for either of them. But there was an equilibrium, she knew where she stood, they managed to step back well before combat started. She never felt the need to try to slice into Sam with words.  
Maybe it was because she was bound so tightly to Sam, shadowed him so much. Sometimes it felt like Sam's thoughts and feelings were rubbing off on her like ink from old newspaper, all that pseudo knowledge and experience from the visions, being forced to write it all.

Speaking of, maybe it was time she read back over her fic again. There was a chance reading "The Thing You Hate" or looking at some of her reviewer's comments would help shake off her funk. Maybe help her work out what the point of all of this was.

 _God had to have a reason, didn't He?_

She wasn't sure if she could keep going if it was all just random chance with no plan or reason behind it.

Navigating her phone left-handed, while nailed down by the IV line buried in her right, was irritating. But it beat staring at the wall wishing she could take back yesterday's words or thinking too much about what was actually happening to her.

Or how it would probably end.

...

"Sam, I received your voice mail message. To answer your question there are no active prophets in existence at this time.

With the death of Donatello Redfields there remain no viable candidates to take up the mantle of Prophet of The Lord."

Sam held the cell phone to his ear grimly, feeling coldness settle in his bones as Castiel's gravelly voice continued "while there is every probability that this Nephilim tablet you hypothesis exists, we have no means to locate it, furthermore without a prophet to translate it... such a tablet would be of no practical use."

"You're certain there aren't _any_ uh possible prophets out there Cas'... Anywhere? Not even hidden away on some obscure island? One that's ... been... uh, missed." Sam asked hopefully.

"I'm sorry Sam. There are no viable prophets alive at this time." The angel spoke firmly "I have told you before, every prophets name is seared into my brain. Prophets are not just randomly born by chance, they are bred. Bloodlines that stretch back to Adam and Eve, the unions that create prophets are carefully managed by servants of Heaven."

"Oh... well, um ... thanks anyway Cas.

I guess it's back to old fashioned detective work. Do you have any new leads? "

"No new leads. Kelly Kline and the child continue to prove elusive. You are correct. Detective work appears to be the most efficacious course of action. There are a few other leads to follow up and I believe the money she withdrew in her previous banking transaction will be exhausted soon. Lack of funds will force her to surface, it is only a matter of time."

"Yeah, thanks Cas, stay in touch okay?" The phone went dead in his ear.

So, if Michele wasn't a prophet, what exactly was she?

Sam sat staring into space for a long time, trying to gather his thoughts.

He should get himself together, start the day, he could smell coffee, had been hearing faint domestic sounds that said Dean was up and active. Probably in the kitchen making breakfast.

He should tell Dean.

...

"An' Cas was sure?" Dean asked leaving his plate, he pushed back his chair and ambled to the bar fridge, grey men of letters robe over his sleep t-shirt and boxers, socked feet silent on the floor.

For some reason, Sam found himself cataloguing his brother in that moment.

Dean looked almost sad as he returned, eyes dark and hooded. He opened the two beers and slid one in front of Sam. Sam eyed it dubiously. Beer and pancakes, the breakfast of champions.

"He reminded me every prophets name is seared into his brain. That they're bred specifically and don't just happen. There are no active prophets, Sam. There are no viable candidates in existence at this time, Sam." He mimicked Cas's voice and gestured expansively, watching his large hands fly up like a flock of startled birds.

He realised, belatedly, and unhappily, that he'd _just assumed_ Cas would give him confirmation that Michele was a prophet.

Now he felt unaccountably betrayed.

Giving in, he took several deep swallows of beer, feeling the cold autumnal bitterness slide down his throat to settle in his stomach like ballast.

Dean raised his own beer in salute, stuffed a huge forkful of pancakes and bacon into his mouth. Chewed, in that disgusting, mouth partially open way he did, when he's really enjoying his food, comfortable, thinking about other things or trying to get a rise out of someone.

"So, scratch prophet off the list, what's left?"

"One of Azazel's Special kids, a garden variety psychic ... seer, oracle ... uh maybe even fricking Pandora, Tiresias or Mopsus for all we know Dean, the list is endless."

"Guess she could be a whore too Sammy."

Sam banged his beer down on the table. "Dean, what is it with you, her and each other's sex lives. Give it a rest!" He flared.

Dean eyed him from across the table, put his fork down carefully on his plate "Whore of Babylon, Sam." He said with surprising gentleness and sighed "Remember Leah Gideon? She was a _false prophet_... A whore of Babylon. I don' wanna think it any more than you do buddy, I don' wanna say it t' ya either. But I'm gonna. How much do we actually know about your hobbit foreign correspondent bro? Samwise Gamgees Mom, she's all …small, cute and fuzzy, has a killer accent and gives us tomorrow's news today and we've told ourselves she's mostly harmless. But we don't _know_ that.

Next time Cas comes back to the bunker I think we need t' get him in the loop Sam.

Stop this bullshit, introduce the Christian to the angel, if she's not a prophet and she _is_ harmless there's no reason for her to be all coy. Let's get all the cards on the table an' work out where the chips fall. Okay little brother?"

Sam huffed a breath. "Yeah… okay Dean."

...

Michele stared at her phone screen breath coming rapid and rough between dry lips. Her eyes snared on the last paragraph of Chapter 43 of her fic.

" _ **Karen sent a short prayer from her friend heavenwards as watched Michele walk away back to the car park carrying her child. The pain written on her friends face and the amount of blood were troubling... but what really made Karen uneasy was that for a tiny second, before Michele's eyes had closed in pain, she could swear she saw sparks flare in her green eyes.**_

 _ **Karen shook her head at her imagination. it must have just been a trick of the malls lighting."**_

Michele couldn't remember writing the words, all she could remember about publishing that particular chapter was the bloody battle of wills she'd waged with her unseen adversary/owner/tormentor … whatever over using Karen's real name and the actual name of the girls home in that chapter. The pain and the amount of blood she had lost, before she'd caved.

She was shivering, her pulse drumming in her ears

 **Sparks had flared in her eyes?!**

She was pretty sure none of Carver Edlund's (Chuck's) books had mentioned _that_ as a prophet thing.

" _What am I?"_

" _Am I even human?"_

She needed to talk to Sam, he'd help her figure it out, he wanted to help fix her didn't he? It would be okay…

Then a catalog of words and the memories filled her mind

Sam's musing tone the day before took on a new weight

 _"I guess I don't really know you, do I?"_

The memory of Deans voice, harsh and cruel rose up, making her flinch.

" _Sam thinks you're sooo nice but I've got your number, bitch. Mebbe your loyalties lie with the yellow eyed freaks that gave ya frickin powers._ "

The voice in the dark

" _I mean... think about it..._

 _They kill your kind. It's in their blood. And you know..._ _you know_ _... it's only a matter of time before they come.. for y-ou."_

She became uncertain. Imagined cowering on her knees with a gun to her head.

 _No Dean, I promise I'm not like that… I don't want to be a monster or a glowing eyed thing._

 _I don't want to be …_

 _...but what if I am?_

Her eyes followed the IV line up to the bag of blood.

 _What's so very different between me and a vampire anyway?_


	55. Chapter 55 Cinderellas step -brother

**Chapter 55**

"I can't believe the bitch bled in my shoe, in it, Sam! Wraith goobies in my boot. How do I even clean that?"

"Maybe you should just get new boots" Sam muttered with an eye roll, looking up from the tablet, then back down again _..._

 _A load of missing pets, a string of grave desecration's, a chewed-up half eaten_ _ **embalmed**_ _body of an old woman, that turned up a mile from the cemetery, and now an attempted child abduction (the police report stated the boy swore up and down it was his grandmother ... who'd been dead for a month.) Mick Davies' email and the attached links outlined the case a few towns over._

"... They're my favourite boots Sam, worn in just right" Dean continued to whine from the impala's driver's seat "I'm not tossing my favourite boots cos of that predatory skank. I hope somethin' in purgatory rips her a new one when she reaches that next bus stop. A man's boots are sacred, ya don't mess with a guy's boots. There's gotta be a good way t' clean em... do something useful with that tablet an' Google it Bitch."

"I thought shoes were a female obsession, Dean." Sam answered his brother with deceptive mildness, glanced across to see Deans mouth clamp shut. "Besides a silver bullet could have done the job, I'm sure of it. If you'd _just_ stepped back and let me take the shot."

"Neither one of us were exactly seeing straight right then Sammy."

"Yeah, but I _told you_ before we got there I wanted to see..."

( _whether Mick was right, whether the Men of Letters way is better, whether there are ways to do this where we don't risk so much, a sniper's rifle loaded with silver bullets perhaps.)_

"This job is not a science project Sam, ventilation with a silver blade's tried an' true. Bitch is dead, case is closed." Dean cut him off with a casual shrug.

"I'm just saying Dean, if you'd _stepped back_ and let me take the shot, one of your _favourite_ shoes might not be filled with wraith blood. You wouldn't be squelching when you walk ... and whining about it."

"You wanna talk about shoes Sam? At least I kept both _my_ shoes on my feet Cinderella, an' I didn't need t' give my brother puppy eyes till he retrieved it... From a frickin sewer drain."

"That was years ago and I was cursed Dean!" Sam huffed "…We need to take a left up here."

"No, we don't Sam, I know my way home."

"We aren't going home, not yet. There's a case next town over."

"Really?" Dean shot his brother a surprisingly happy grin, all white teeth and enthusiasm. Last case, gore filled shoe, everything else forgotten "Awesome! What ya got?"

"My guess, it's a ghoul that's off the reservation." Sam paused for a moment "looks like there's a chance it's decided to move onto ... uh live-er... younger prey."

Sam explained what he thought the case was, watching the enthusiasm drop from his older brothers face and be replaced by clenched jawed anger.

"So, you think ghoul munches grandmas at the all you can eat cemetery buffet then decided to get some _live takeout._ Becomes grandma an' stakes out this kid, Jamie Pond's school. Does the whole 'Mommy asked me to pick you up' routine. Kid almost falls for it till he remembers that Granny should be pushing up daisies. Kicks up a fuss and escapes." Dean rubbed a hand across the back of his neck _and growled.  
_ "The freaks escalating, it won't go back to munching dead people now. It'll try again." He ground a fist along his stubbled jaw and planted his foot more firmly on the impala's accelerator.

"Yeah... it will. And I doubt the kid was just opportunistic ... It's pretty cunning, a dead loved one, that's not a _stranger,_ is it? If it wasn't for the adult witness that collaborated that _someone_ tried to grab him no one would even believe the boy ... because the Grandmother's dead."

"All the grown-ups'd jist put it down to the kid being upset or processing Grandmas death or some shit, yeah."

"So, first stop cops? then coroner's office?"

"Yeah find out where the grandmothers body turned up, get photos of all the dead people ghouly Mc Pedophile coulda munched, see if any of those stiffs had kids in their lives that could be targets... and better interview this Jamie kid." Dean glanced at his watch "recon we kin find a motel, open in this burg, at this hour or are we gonna end up sleepin' in the car til everythin' opens…" Dean frowned at a thought and shifted uncomfortably  
"…Hey Sam, let's not mention this case to Mitch ok?"

"Yeah nah man, totally agree."

...

"Peaches… Since you're my very smartest supernatural book and fic expert (that's on line right now,) I have a question..."

"Ask away."

"What spn creatures eyes glow."

"It depends, really. Some can have glowy eyes, but don't every time their power is used.  
"Zeke" had glowing eyes when he took control from Sam each time.  
Demons will flash different eye colors, but only the yellow and white ones really glowed."

"I'm more looking for a list of possible suspects for things with glowing, flaring or sparking eyes."

"Hmmm angels, jinn, witches, hell hounds, black dogs, the cicada spirit things, possibly some of the gods (not totally sure about that) that's off the top of my head. Shape shifter's eyes have the camera eye flare thing, as do vamps I think. Werewolves and demon's eyes change color. Oh, and I think the Nephilim that Castiel killed in Clip Show had eyes that lit up."

"Nephilim? Really?"

"Michele seriously?! Your fic has Nephilim in it. Do your research! There's nothing worse than ficwriters that don't do their research. I would like to add for completeness sake how _that_ particular Nephelim wasn't exactly intent on destroying the world, she was minding her own business working as a waitress until Castiel and Metatron turned up... But since yours is Lucifer's kid - meh! you can get away with it, I guess."

"Clip Show Hu? How do you remember what happened in which book genius kid? I may have gotten a little lazy with my research ... I've been spoilt by knowing this really brilliant spn fic writer who just answers all my questions -adoring smile-. I should make you a badge that reads "Peaches super special consultant"... I like to think it's cos I work smarter not harder. Delegation!"

"Yeah what eva, hey take a look at this article I dug up, it's not spn but ..."

Michele looked at the link

"Ask mystic investigations? What causes eye glowing in supernatural creatures? Is this my homework?"

"Seems unfair that I have so much and you have none."

"Sweetness I did the uni thing, did the study slog thing, got the degree and the job, gave it all up for the love of a child. But I do have homework Kiddo. I've got a stack of stuff on dyspraxia to wade through. Unfortunately, my grades are final and I can't re-sit. They're otherwise named **my kids**."

"I guess that's true."

"Yup, all of life has tests Peachy girl. When you hit the world, you don't always know you're sitting them... But they matter."

"Speaking of, I've got a test Friday."

"Well off ya go, go study go study -naggy Mum voice-."

"My real Mom doesn't nag… bossy Kiwi Mom."

"Boss boss boss, Seriously though! Thanks for the article. I will look at it."

"cya"

...

Michele scrolled through the article quickly, at first glance it looked like total crap. Badly edited pictures made up to look like supernatural creatures that were pretty laughable.

But then her eyes started to snag on scientific terms, she scrolled back to the beginning and began reading in earnest. Discussions of _tapetum lucidum_ in cat eyes, its role in reflecting and concentrating available light and how it was possibly similar to that found in vampire and shape shifter eyes.

Photon theory and possible links to the soul, paranormal, and the occult... metaphysical energy transfer.

It was an interesting read, once she would have written it off as a mental game of 'let's imagine the fantastic is real and now let's try and explain it using fragments of scientific truth.' It was filled with smatterings of anatomy, biology, physics and science. A large dose of conjecture too of course, but it was a credible attempt to marry science and the supernatural together. Six months ago, she would have laughed and said it was a game perpetuated by a smart person aimed to sucker the weak minded for fun…

Now she found herself reluctantly believing in a world populated with things outside of recognized reality. Not just God and faith… making allowance for miracles, but the things in the dark, and in monster that she thought only belonged in movies too.

Michele wondered if the document was written by a hunter or maybe a man of letters. Felt a winsome tug of intellectual longing. Imagined working in a laboratory investigating the amazing possibilities… was that what the Men of Letters did? _Oh oh oh that would be AMAZING!_ But of course, it was silly to think about, and they weren't very nice people ...they would probably want to chop her head off or vivisect her.

She had more important responsibilities anyway and more than enough on her plate.

She continued reading with a more sombre mind.

The last paragraph dealt with humans with glowing eyes… Michele guessed that would be like witches...And … **Her,** if she wasn't some sort of unhatched _thing._

" _ **Humans can manifest brilliant ocular illumination when practicing powerful magics, manifesting their psychokinetic psi powers, sometimes while being possessed by various higher dimensional beings.**_

 _ **Glowing eyes in a human can be a warning sign in an individual who has temporarily borrowed magic, a sign that they are seriously supernaturally straining their body on a cellular level. In standard human's such a shimmering show often signifies they have far exceeded their bodies capacity to handle the metaphysical energy current. While in some cases an individual's body has the ability to adjust to the strain. Often if left unchecked, like in an electronic circuit with an extreme power source attached to a low wattage bulb, it becomes only a matter of time before the metaphorical light bulb that is their body blows."**_

Michele felt her mouth quiver as she bit down hard on her bottom lip, she stared at the words on the screen.

'Seriously supernaturally straining their body on a cellular level'… 'metaphorical light bulb blowing'… Yeah not really comforting. So, if the writer wasn't a crazy or someone playing pretend she had a choice of what? Being a freakish thing waiting to hatch and spread its wings... or a time bomb.

….

"Honey can you tell me what happened?" Michele spoke quietly, crouched down beside the small shivering ball that was her son, wedged under his school desk.

The small ball uncurled briefly and hurled itself into her arms knocking her backwards against the desk behind her.

For a while she just held his quivering body, rocking him slightly in her arms, hugging him hard and released in a constant rhythm like waves, providing the proprioceptive physical stimuli that calmed him. Glancing up she met the eyes of the teacher who hovered near her desk hesitantly, the woman's eyes were slightly panicked.

"I'm sorry for calling you." the lady cooed nervously.

"No, you did the right thing. NEVER hesitate to call. I'd be mad if you didn't." she dropped a few kisses against her son's hair, felt him curl tighter against her, his arms wormed themselves around her waist.

"Will you tell me what happened?" she asked again quietly.

"It was art time" - Michele had noted the paint smears on her son's hands "Johnny and Shawn seemed to be working together really well, then suddenly he just leaped at Shawn and shoved him back over the desk. Then Johnny just stood there above the boy and _**screamed.**_ "

"Is the other boy okay?" Michele sighed wearily and bit her lip, unleashed earnest eyes on the teacher from her place on the floor with her son. _(the other question "are Shawn's parents pissed and are they going to cause trouble" hovered unspoken_ ) "Did the child say what caused it?" Because there was always a reason, but usually the child who started it (her darling Autistic bomb always ended it) knew what caused it but wouldn't _say_.

"Shawn was fine, a bit shocked… said he did nothing to provoke it." Michele dipped her head to her son's hair to hide her cynical smile. The teachers wording clued her in.

"Shawn's one of the older children in the class? I can't place him…" Michele asked carefully.

"Yes, he's one of the bigger boys, a senior. I'm not sure you would know him. He isn't in any of Johnny's usual academic groups." _(Older, bigger and not very smart. Got ya.)_

"Okay darling boy I need to see your face," A pale tear stained face raised hesitantly, eyes turned away, cradling his face in both palms, she ran thumbs under his eyes to wipe away the tears "Shawn said or did something you didn't like hu?" A cringe, a microscopic nod. "Now what could this _Shane_ say that would upset Johnny I wonder. _Stuart_ must or done or said something." she mused as if to herself.

"Shawn not _Shane or Stuart_ , Mum!" _(yeah I know Kiddo Mummy's playin' stupid to lubricate the all-important wheels of communication_ ) the face buried itself against her chest again.

"What, oh what, did _Steve_ say or do I wonder?"

A mumble in response, she pried the small face up again "I didn't catch that, must be cos I don't have ears on my tummy Kiddo. What did _Spaghetti_ do? "

"I said, _Shawn_ lied!" came the fierce response.

"Think it could have been a 3D printer moment? We talked about that - people saying stuff cos they want us to like them. We don't get mad at people for wanting us to like them even if they sometimes forget lying's wrong. We forgive them and help them see the truths better."

" _Nooooo!"_ It was the sound of a trapped animal _(I'm missing something here aren't I?)_ Then that small chin lifted, braced. Bravery and determination settled onto the beloved face _(that's my boy, you tell me what I need to know, you can do it)_

"I said you were going to let me come see one day when you had a transfusion, just like you let me come see the scans when Chris was in your tummy, that I could ask them _questions_." Michele _smiled '(yes because if they can torture me with needles my love, you can ask them every curly question you got… and I'm going to need you to be a marvellous big brother and keep Mr 2 under control while I'm pinned down since Daddy and the sisters aren't gonna be home.)_

"Did he say I wouldn't? _You know I will_ , I never lie to you. I keep my promises"

"… no …" her son clung to her arms like a vice, as if to prevent her slipping away. Green eyes wide in remembered - soon to be shared horror, his voice was barely above a whisper

"he said you were going to… _die_ … because you have to have transfusions."

Tears gathered in those beseeching eyes. Timeless summer green, slashed with gold and encircled in an aching infinity of cerulean blue, that held its breath like stopped time. The tear gathered like inevitability, shimmered, and trickled over.

" _Say you're not going to die. He lied, didn't he?!_ _ **Promise you won't die**_ _!"_ the most precious voice she knew sliced her wide open and left her shattered and bleeding with its impossible demand.

Pain twisted in her chest like a rusty knife, held her voice and breath prisoner.

"Ohhh, baby, people don't die from transfusions. They make people better… But I can't promise you I won't die, ever. No one can, because everyone eventually dies, it's how we are made." the words breached her lips like loss ( _because I said I'd never lie, and I can't start now)'_ "But you're are a big part" _(I can't tell you how much, I can't lay that on your shoulders)_ "of my reason for living and you're right here! So, I'm not going anywhere without a fight. Because I. LOVE. YOU." each word punctuated with a kiss on the forehead. Mother and son's eyes locked solemnly.

"Okay?"

 _Please, let that be enough_ , _please God… let it be enough!_


	56. Chapter 56 The Things kids know

**Chapter 56**

Dean snorted in irritated disgust as he found himself outside the politely, but firmly shut front door to the Pond residence.

Over-protective fricking parents!

Dean hadn't gotten a chance to talk to the kid, Jamie, without his Mom hovering, answering and interrupting all his questions.

The kid couldn't get a word in edgewise and Dean suspected it had been intentional. All he'd got was the party line; "an old lady approached Jamie on the way home from school, grabbed him and tried to drag him somewhere, he'd pulled free and ran. That was the whole story as far as Mom was concerned. It was possibly something or nothing, Jamie had been frightened and traumatized by the whole experience, ended up with a bruised wrist and some confused thoughts... but it was over."  
Then helicopter Mom had sent the kid to his room and politely escorted Dean to, and out the front door.

Now here Dean stood on the sidewalk with nada and bupkis, his two least favored kinds of info.

Fricking useless waste of time!

There was a blonde girl with pigtails sitting on the brick fence of the house next door, she'd be about the same age as Jamie, Dean guessed.

Dean wondered briefly if it would be worth asking her a few questions, she was watching him, swinging her legs and staring at an iPad in her hands

"Mr, are you the FBI agent?"

"Why do ya wanna know kid?"

"Jamie says his Mom wouldn't let him talk to you and he's really peed off." The girl informed him and waved her iPad at him. "So-o, he asked me to come out here and wait for you." The girl giggled and twirled one of her pigtails "Parents are so dense... you _are_ the FBI guy, right?"

Dean nodded, flashed her his badge for good measure, wondering where things were leading.

"Ok Mr, Jamie wants to talk to you." The girl hopped off the fence and shoved the iPad into his hands, then scampered back to her wall, looking pleased with herself.

Jamie Pond was all set up on FaceTime and looked back at him from the tablet.

"That's… pretty smart." Dean drawled looking over his shoulder at the Pond house and shifted back out of line of sight, in case Mrs Pond looked out and wondered why he was loitering.

Both kids grinned at him, one from the iPad and one from the fence.

"So, kid, want t' tell me what _actually_ happened?"

...

Kid witnesses were tricky. Sometimes they were useless due to trauma (though kids were often more resilient than their adults gave them credit for, few of them were tough like Sam and he had been at the same age.) Sometimes they'd go off into flights of fantasy. If you didn't handle it right they'd tell you things they _thought_ you wanted to hear with no regard for reality (and in their line of work that could be hard to pick) or they'd veer off on a tangent for half an hour about their best friend's birthday party, last year. You had to be patient. You had to be careful not to ask leading questions or volunteer too much information. You had to be careful not to make 'em cry, (distressed kids were a one-way all-expense paid ticket to 'get the hell out and don't come back.') You also had to be really careful people didn't think you were a creep, paying too much of the wrong kind of attention to the kid.

The Pond kid and his pigtailed accomplice, Tilly, were at that golden age, they could reason soberly, but still believed in the world of the unexplained. A world that older kids and adults discounted. They were in that flux zone.

More to the point Jamie was pissed at his Mom for not believing him and he wanted to help.

Jamie knew what he'd seen, he'd been attacked by a grandma that _wasn't his grandma,_ because she was dead ("Well dahh! I went to the funeral Mr.")

Now finally, someone in authority was listening to him.

Sam might still be trying to track down a photo of Jamie's Grandmother and Mrs Pond may not have been forth coming with one, but all it took for Jamie to give Dean that information was for the boy to walk into his parent's room and point his iPad at a huge the extended family photo framed and hanging on the wall, Dean snapped a photo of Grandma from iPad screen with his phone camera.

Two 8-year olds, technology and a guy used to asking the right questions. It was practically child's play.

Kids listen when parents think they aren't, so Jamie knew that a month after they buried her, his grandma's body had turned up in a dumpster behind the new subdivision on Barkley street.

Kids are damned macabre, (think about fairy tales a moment and you'll understand what I'm getting at), they pick over gory details and whisper about them in corners of the school yard. In small towns where everyone knows everyone and always has (except for the new kids, the ones Sam and Dean Winchester had been constantly) kids have an almost collective consciousness, the school yards are the ultimate form of crowd sourcing when things are hinky, kids might not always know exactly what's happening but they still know bucket loads of _stuff. Useful stuff._

Pets matter to them, when Rover or Fluffy go missing their whole world tilts on its axis. They search and they worry and they _mourn,_ they resonate with others who share their loss. Jamie and pigtailed miss Tilly could name 15 pets who had vanished within the past month and point out their homes on a map, that gave Dean a convincing zone of inquiry.

Kids also _get_ everywhere, they know a lot about abandoned buildings and hiding places (even if they've never set foot there themselves.) The rumour mill of the kid underground knows about them, the places adults don't go, places hunters often find the things they seek.

With the right questions, Jamie and Tilly gave Dean that information too.

After a fifteen-minute conversation with the kids, Dean had the two most likely locations for the fuglie of the week, and three more possibles.

...

"FaceTime Sam, yeah...

Hey, I'm good with kids, what can I say...

Look Sam, since you've gotta wait for the copies of those photos, an' one of the possibles the kids thought of, is like a five-minute walk from here I'm just gonna swing past and scope it out, I'll text you the address, you kin meet me there...

Ha, it's **not** _ME_ the fuglies find so tasty, it's _**you**_ _,_ cream puff. Personally, I recon it's cos you eat too much salad, herbivores are prey in the food chain bro...

No seriously, don't get your knickers in a bunch, Samantha. I'll walk slow, saunter even...

My vocab' is _much_ more extensive than four letter words, Bitch, some would say it's _distensible_...

No, I let Mom win...

An' remember not to ride the brakes Sam...

No, I'm serious! ...

I know you've got big feet man, but it's no excuse for having a lead foot...

She is not _just_ a car dude!...

Yes, I've got my fricking gun...

 _Seriously_ Sam?!... Why don't you just go try to teach Grandma to suck eggs, Dude I _know_ how to cap a ghoul...

Whatever...

No! And don't park too close to the curb ...

 _Because,_ if you scrape my rims I'll kick your ass."

Dean cut the call, in the middle of a full-on little brother bitch-whinge, a self-satisfied grin plastered across his face.

...

In hind sight, it probably would have been _much_ smarter to have waited for Sam.

But Dean had seen something sort of red and white, like chewed bone, in the overgrown weeds and grass by the abandoned cottage's flaking front door.

As it turned out it had been a dried and mostly stripped cat skull. He'd found someone's missing pet. Could be something, could be nothing.

That in turn, had led him close enough to the south side of the house, where he saw that one of the boards over the basement windows was _propped against_ , rather than _nailed over,_ the window.

That had, of course, led him to think maybe he should just check things out real quick, before Sam pulled up.

After a fair amount of watching and listening, belly down in the dirt and scraggly weeds, letting his eyes adjust, he could make out that the dusty floor had a clearer strip to the stairs, up into the main house, signs of migratory passage back and forth. There were some low, half seen shapes along the back wall, not big enough to be a ghoul, but frustratingly under-visualized in the gloom.

So, he'd slid through the basement window to check it out.

He slid through the basement window, which seemed a bit tighter fit than he thought it should be, if Sam'd been here he would have had to endure both barrels of "Mr Healthy eating's" knowing look and frowny face. The silent admonishment that he wasn't getting any younger and should do more to live a healthier lifestyle.

Then, as he landed, his stupid gripless Fed dress shoes slid on something slick and dumped him on his ass _'shoulda worn my wraith goobied boots after all',_ he was gonna change back into them as soon as he got back to the car, so what if one squelched a bit, at least they kept him upright.

Hand down on the floor he moved back into a crouch, repressing the urge to swear when he realised the slick stuff he'd slipped in had the rancid smell of rotting meat and the tacky-slick slide of old blood.

Now he was in the basement, the half-seen shapes resolved to be disturbing lumps of mystery meat that Dean decided against investigating too closely.  
Fan-fricking-tastic he'd found the ghouls larder, looking back at the window, now he was inside, he decided it was probably better to leave by a through and out route rather than attempt to scramble back up and out the tight window in his gripless substandard dress shoes.

Dean moved stealthfully through the fetid darkness to the stairs, centre of balance low to the ground, senses on high alert and gun in hand. Slid up the treads silent as a cat and eased open the door at the top of the stairs.

...

"I'm hungry" a quavering voice made Dean freeze. "I want to taste the blood still warm, the flesh still wriggling. I want a little one." The voice dropped back to a rambling croon that reminded Dean suddenly of Golem from "Lord of The Rings" and his bipolar monologues. With a shudder, the hunter pushed the thought away superstitiously, blanking his mind of all things Tolkien as he followed the voice through the house, to the front room.

There it was, the ghoul. It paced in the boarded-up gloom, looking like the old woman from Jamie's family photo. But moving with a disconcertingly fluid predatory grace. The creatures gait might be smooth and put together, but the way it crooned warbled and wailed to itself as it paced was anything but. Dean had heard enough, he raised his ivory handled Colt 1911A1 and emptied his clip into its brainpan. Obliterating most of its head.

Shortly after that everything went to hell.

A numbing blow hit Dean's raised gun arm from behind, the empty gun flew in a stop-motion arc from the hunters suddenly nerveless hand as another blow knocked him flying across the room.

Dean felt a moment of regret as he realised his mistake.

There had been two ghouls, apparently.

Sam was gonna be real pissed at him… If he was lucky.


	57. Chapter 57 Lady in red

**Chapter 57**

 _"I've been reading books of old  
The legends and the myths  
Achilles and his gold  
Hercules and his gifts  
Spiderman's control  
And Batman with his fists  
And clearly I don't see myself upon that list_

 _But she said, where'd you wanna go?  
How much you wanna risk?  
I'm not looking for somebody  
With some superhuman gifts  
Some superhero  
Some fairytale bliss  
Just something I can turn to  
Somebody I can miss"_

Michele grinned and looked over her shoulder at her two year old strapped in his car seat and seriously rocking out, arms and legs waving wildly, small head weaving back and forth as he yodelled along in his unique all vowels way. Michele laughed turned up the radio and tapped her hands on the steering wheel to the music as she drove.  
 _  
"I want something just like this  
Doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo  
Doo-doo-doo  
Oh, I want something just like this  
Doo-doo-doo, doo-doo  
Doo-doo-doo  
Oh, I want something just like this  
I want something just like this_

 _I've been reading books of old  
The legends and the myths  
The testaments they told  
The moon and its eclipse  
And Superman unrolls  
A suit before he lifts  
But I'm not the kind of person that it fits"_

It was a song she'd heard before, but Michele couldn't name the band.  
Unlike the Winchester way of doing things, in the Chadwick car, the rule was more "The teens pick the radio station and the driver endures. Or else they're driven mad by teen whining."  
The song somehow reminded her of the Winchesters, though she was sure Dean would probably rather die horribly than listen to something like it.  
Michele took the turn to the park with the duck pond, nodding her head and singing along with the chorus as she drove.

 _"But she said, where'd you wanna go?_

 _How much you wanna risk?  
I'm not looking for somebody  
With some superhuman gifts  
Some superhero  
Some fairytale bliss  
Just something I can turn to_

 _Somebody I can miss"_

The song came to an end as they hit the parking lot.

"Eat ducks!" Her son demanded as Michele put on the parking break and grabbed the bag of crusts and stale bread, her sons weekly tribute to his feathery pals.

"We are going to _feed the ducks_. The ducks will _eat the bread_. No Ducks will be _eaten_ in the making of this experience..." The mother lectured her son with easy good humour while reaching for her seatbelt…

Michele's hand fell away, her body jerked once and her head rocked back against the headrest as a vision hit.

Sparks of gold flared and spluttered briefly in her eyes as threads of blood ran from her nose, made its leisurely path across parted lips and down her chin, begun to journey along the line of her throat.

A guttural gasp of pain. Michele came back to herself with a look of wincing irritation and wiped the blood on her face and neck with the palm of her hand, smearing it across pale skin.

"Well, _that_ was the world's most useless vision. Dunno what I'm supposed to do with _that_." The woman muttered derisively shoving her hair back out of her face and reaching for migraine pills and baby wipes from the glovebox.  
"Either supernatural signal strength here sucks, or the bibles wrong about God not sleeping n He's asleep in the control room ... or perhaps my lightbulb _really is_ on the way out" she rasped with a sour look.

"Ou-, ou-... eat ducks!" The two-year-old clamoured from the back seat bouncing in place and making his mother winced.

"Yeap, ok, got it. Priorities Mummy. Gotta feed the quackers. Who knows, maybe zen and the art of duck feeding will help me work out what to tell Sam..."

...

It _looked_ like a fifty-ish, greying, soft-round-the-middle executive.  
As it stalked towards Dean holding a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire, the ghoul reminded him of a nightmare little league Coach from the dark side of hell.

"Let me guess, you'll be playing the part of Ghoul number two this afternoon?" The hunter wheezed sarcastically as he pulled his feet under him and eyed his fallen gun, calculating his chances.  
The hunter pulled out his knife, it wouldn't kill the freak easy and ghouls were wicked fast and strong, but it was better than nothing.

"And you'll be playing the part of... a well tenderised cut of meat... by the time I'm finished with you." The ghoul advised stalking forward and kicking Deans gun aside. "The menu advertised something younger and juicier than _you_... but I'm adaptable. This..." the ghoul took a swipe with the bat "isn't a meat mallet, but my donor really _loved_ his baseball, even wanted to be buried with this thing... of course... I've _improved_ it a bit." The ghoul smirked proudly tilting the wire wrapped bat, bounced on his toes, then made another swing "while you'll never be as sweet as a kid... with enough …pounding you'll be nearly as tender."

"Yeah scuzz bucket, we know ya like em young. Neva woulda guessed it lookin at your girlfriend, though." Dean taunted.

"Shut your face!" The ghoul snarled, stepping closer, raising the bat again.

Dean widened his stance, grinning ferally, crouched slightly, gripping the knife in an easy hand, then raised a mocking eyebrow at the creature.

" _Hey batter batter batter! S-wing batter!"_ he taunted in an easy drawl, hoping the creature would get mad enough to simply lunge and leave an opening for him to duck past and go for his gun.

"Food shouldn't be this mouthy" the ghoul complained stepping in, swinging the bat at the knife in Deans hand.

Dean dodged away. The bat missed making contact, but the barbed wire around it caught the hunter's jacket.

Dragged him off balance.

Sent him stumbling sideways.

Dean blundered over the first ghouls body.

Went down.

The knife skated out of his grasp.

"Strike one." The hunter grimaced, attempting to gain his feet again, internally cursing his grip-less dress shoes as one slid on essence of ghoul, twisting his knee.

"That's okay Tiger, the next ones gonna be a line drive."

The ghoul raised the bat.

Without fanfare, it's head disintegrated.

The ghoul slumped to the floor.

Dean looked up.

Sam stood in the doorway frozen, the shotgun still raised. Panting, Eyes wide behind his straggly hair.

"Sammy, nice of ya t' join the party." Dean ground out, smeared a layer of homogenized ghoul brain off his face with his jacket sleeve.

The younger brother shuddered, and exhaled sharply letting the gun drop to his side.

Swept his hair back with an unsteady hand.

"One of these days... I'm not going to get here in time, you fucking moron." Sam flared.

"Not today." Dean quoted with a shit eating grin.

"Screw you Syrio Forel, you hurt?" Sam questioned roughly, grabbed his brothers forearm and pulled him to his feet.

Dean rolled his shoulders and snorted, collected his weapons, replaced the Colts clip and slid everything out of sight "Nah... bruises cross m' back... Nothin' that a couple of shots of the good stuff won't fix." Dean bent over, picked up the baseball bat from beside the collapsed ghoul and bounced it in his palm thoughtfully. "Clean-up on this ones gonna be a bitch. Basements full of mystery meat, this dump's isolated … my votes t' torch the whole joint."

Sam huffed and rolled his eyes, then shrugged "Whatever you think best John Leonard Orr."

"Who?"

"Serial arsonist from the late 80's Dean. They called him the _Pillow Pyro."_

"Ahh - serial killer fetish… right" the older brother muttered beginning to drag a dead ghoul towards the basement stairs.

"No, Orr only killed 4 people… and I think it was mostly accidental" Sam disagreed grabbing the other body's legs and following his brother.

….

"So, let me get this straight." Dean Winchester muttered looking away from the road at his brother, "you're sayin' your frickin' pet hobbit is asking us t' _stay away from bars_ because… she had a vision 'that felt bad' of you sitting at a bar with some chick in a red dress. That it's because you 'n' I ' _saw this woman differently_.' I mean seriously, what the hell dude!"

"Uhh…" Sam shot his brother a rueful glance "yeah Dean… that pretty much sums it up."

"Seriously Sam?! She's not a prophet an' she's ain't our Mom, an' **I want a frickin drink!** We deserve it, wrapping up two cases in two days… frankly Sam, with the kinda intell she provided it's jist as likely Mitch's ' _bad feelin'_ has more t' do with not wantin' t' watch ya get laid."

Dean sniggered at his brother as he ducked behind his hair, looking mortified. "And I _do_ sorta sympathise with the woman … But...Ya gotta do what _or who_ ya gotta do, little brother. We are not letting your pet Tolkien creation jerk us around, I mean... since she's not gonna jerk you o_" Sam shoved his brother. Hard.

Dean laughed in delight and nudged his brother affectionately "You're sooo easy Sammy."

"Nah Dean" Sam favoured his brother with a sly grin "I'm pretty sure, the title of easy Winchester brother goes to you dude."

…

"Fine! We're here, we're ignoring Michele, are you happy Jerk?"

Dean favoured his brother with a disarming smile and a hum of satisfaction.

"Great, marvellous… but I am not hooking up with anyone… especially not some woman in a red dress, Dean. We are here _solely_ so you can marinade your liver until it sobs for mercy."

Dean continued smiling in a maddeningly conceited manner as his younger brother shot him a sour look of irritation.

"Just… just give me the keys.. okay."

Dean snorted in amusement and tossed the keys to his brother over the impala's roof, ducked back inside and pulled out the ghoul's baseball bat. Wrapping it in his splattered jacket.

"Com'on seriously Dean! You can't take a baseball bat into a bar. There's no way in hell…"

"Sure, I can Sam, I'm a federal agent and it's an important piece of evidence."

"Cut the crap man, you really don't need to take that thing into the bar!"

"I really do Sam… I'm sure there's a signature on this thing, why else would grey n pudgy have been buried with it? I jist need t' look at it in some decent light. I'll do it in the men's if it makes you happier Agent Uptight… this thing could be worth serious cash Sam."

Sam shot his brother a look that was practically copywritten as "you are so mind-numbingly reckless at times that I fantasise about knocking you unconscious and tossing you in the trunk."

…..

Dean ran his calloused finger gossamer light and reverent over the wire wrapped wood "Unfrickin be-lievable… Signed by Babe Ruth… Sam's gonna flip." The hunter breathed, a sunny smile and a childlike look of anticipation lit his face.

Pushing the men's room door open Dean scanned the dark bar eagerly for his brother "Sam…" Dean voice faltered, eyes widening at what he saw.

Sam sat at the bar, next to a woman, his whole body turned towards her, head tilted in rapt absorption.  
As Dean watched his little brother laid one of his hands on the woman's knee and slid it up her thigh. The woman laughed lightly reached forward tangling her fingers in Sam's hair and pulled him down, kissing him deeply.

The eldest Winchester watched agape with surprise.

"sam?"

He'd only been gone 5 minutes and his kid brother, who often took half an hour to pluck up the courage to _talk_ to a chick in a bar, was groping some random woman and making out with her?!

" _Sam!"_ Dean barked sharply, making towards his brother. Unease seething in his gut. Sam who would usually respond to his brothers call half unconscious and bleeding out, didn't so much as twitch.

Then the woman in the red dress wove her fingers through Sam's, leapt down off her bar stool and pulled Sam away and out the door.

Sam's unusually forward behaviour…a woman in a _Red dress_ … a chick they both _saw differently._

Sonofabitch!

Dean hit the parking lot at a dead run, just in time to see the impala pull out.  
A half-seen glimpse of the creature reflected in Baby's side mirror completed the picture. Sam in the driver's seat and a siren in a red dress riding shotgun.


	58. Chapter 58 Tell Merril to swing away

**Chapter 58**

To be a good hunter you have to think on your feet and react instantly.

Dean wheeled, surveyed the cars in the bar's parking lot.

Chose the oldest vehicle he could see.

Checked for a car alarm.

A baseball bat to the backseat driver's side window is a magnificently quick and efficient way of unlocking a car. A trifle noisy and destructive, but the bar had been pretty loud and there's no one else in sight.

Usually, he'd use more finesse when boosting a car.

But he _didn't have time._

And frankly it felt _good_ to smash something.

"Damn it Sam! Why do ya have to be monster fricking catnip." Dean snarled.

Lent through and forward, unlocked the driver's door.

Yanked the seat release, slammed it back, giving himself room to slide inside.

Tossed the bat on the passenger seat beside him.

Working with hectic urgency, Dean pried the steering column cover off using his knife, nearly cutting himself in the process, hands shaking with the need to _fix his stupidity_. Get Sam back.

 _('Fuck, why couldn't I have listened to Sammy's frickin pet?')_

 _'Less haste more speed, boy'_ a ghost of a memory of Bobby Singer admonished.

Dean closed his eyes and gave himself one breath.

Flashes of memory: Him and Sam racing to hotwire Junkers. Singer Salvage of childhood. Bobby watching. Gruffness, dirty cap and griseled beard not obscuring a smile... An instant flood, behind closed eyelids. For one inhale.

Hotwiring cars was about the only automotive skill Sam had shown any real interest in, excelled his big brother at - Dean could admit it in the privacy of his own head. For years, if a car needed boosting, it was Sam's gig.

Opening his eyes, Dean yanked out the wires with steady hands.

Stripped the relevant ones. Twisted. Then sparked the ignition and battery wires together. Was rewarded by the engine coughing to life.

"Ha, still got it."

Flooring it, Dean slammed the piece of crap car into gear and gave chase before the impala's retreating tail lights disappeared from view.

...

The spot Dean had followed them to was isolated, Dean had ditched his stolen wheels and approached on foot.

The woman in the red dress, no the _Siren_ in the red dress _,_ was perched on the hood of _his_ car making out with _his_ kid brother.

Everything in Dean screamed for him to drag the unnatural bitch off his stupid lunkhead of a brother, throw Sam into his Baby and make a run for it.

But he had to be smart, and he had to end it. Sirens weren't particularly strong or fast by themselves. They used their paramours to do their dirty work. Right now, that was Sam. Dean wasn't sure if Sam had his gun on him, but he was going to be armed with something.

All Dean had was a baseball bat and his knife. He didn't want to chance a fight that he could end up losing.

He didn't want another Nick Monroe moment, with no Bobby to save the day.

Much as it pained him, he was going to have to risk Sam's noggin and knock him out first.

Move fast, and hard. Make Sammy go night night for a little, then take care of the brother stealing, car swiping mega bitch.

It was good Dad had drilled them endlessly on the best technique (though even now, Dad's gravelled tones warned, it wasn't without risks), one sharp hit to the bundle of nerves behind the ear, it worked best on an unsuspecting person. And wrapped up in mega bitch's love juice, Sammy was certainly that.

One slightly pulled wack and Sam slump to the ground, out to it.

The next strike was with everything Dean had, it knocked the woman (siren) away from Sam and the impala, took the siren straight in the mouth smashing its teeth, and its poison sack back into its head. It let out a high-pitched shriek, found its feet again. Advancing hissing Sam's name with a proprietal sound of command, as if his brother was nothing but an attack dog and cannon fodder rolled into one.

Rage gripped Dean in its jaws. A red mist came down…

…..

When Michele woke it was to the mewling almost soundless whooping sobs of an overwrought two-year-and-a-half-year-old, one that's been crying uncomforted for so long that he's beginning to believe no one cares enough to respond.

Disorientated and horrified, for a second Michele didn't know if she had _actually_ been beaten to a pulp and stabbed through the heart.

But _of course,_ it was a vision. If she could _move_ , if her body was more than pulpy mush and splintered bone - it was a vision.

She's still unsure.

Blood's smeared everywhere, maybe some of it's her sons.

Her boy is draped across her ribs, face wedged under her chin, body wracked and shuddering with the winding down force of misery. Too young to understand, his small hands are knotted in and have torn out fistfuls of her hair.

Her hearts hammering as she untangles the toddler from her enough to get a decent look at him, check him over. His small face is covered in blood, but it's her blood. Both mother and son are undamaged physically, but a wreck in every other way.

"Shh shhh honey it's okay, we're okay. I'm sorry darling, mummy's darling shh shh don't cry. _Please_ don't cry, I'm here, I'm here... Mummy's okay. You're okay."

Her voice is a hoarse croak.

She understands.

Sympathetic terror for both of them then. Part of what has terrified her son so thoroughly, is that she was screaming. Sharing the screams along with everything else.

Until Sammy finally put them _both_ (her and the owner of the body she rode in the vision) out of their misery with a dagger thrust to the heart. A shudder rips through her as she tries to disengage from the memory.

Michele stumbled to her feet, cradling her child close, endeavouring not to cry while trying to shush her son, succeeding with the shushing and failing with the tears, but at least keeping them silent.

If the vision itself, feeling and living ... _ **that**_... wasn't bad enough.

Coming back to herself to find her son in such distress.

To have a small snapshot of what might happen if she blacks out during a vision, starts REALLY bleeding and _doesn't come back…_

It is her own private hell, imagining her small son undiscovered for hours...

Left alone and sobbing against her _corpse..._

Her eldest son left alone at school, uncollected, overwrought and frantic, like he gets if she's even a minute late ... only a thousand unending times worse. If autism isn't bad enough, growing up without her to be his advocate and shield...

Her daughters bursting happily in through the front door, already spilling stories of their day, like they always do, after a self-absorbed teenaged day of learning to discover ... a dead mother and a traumatised brother... childhood smashed in an instant.

Her husbands a good man and he'd _try_ but she knows deep down who holds their family together...

Michele staggers under the weight of it all, with her whimpering son in her arms. She made it as far as the chair by the computer, collapsed into it.

 _'Stop! Stop now, don't think about it.'_ she yelled at herself mentally feeling herself circling a hysterical pitch of thought she can't afford. NOT NOW OR EVER.

She grabbed the pack of wipes off the desk.

Crooning nonsense and reassurance, rocking her child gently, she began cleaning the blood, tears and snot from her son's face, his hands, cleansing away at least that much of the horror.

Eventually, exhausted, the toddler falls asleep on her lap. Leaving her alone with her thoughts... her blood-soaked memories.

' _It's over and done now, old news'_ a mocking voice seems to whisper inside her head and she knows, somehow, there is no stopping this vision. It has already played out half a world away. There is no sparing anyone.

 _'Your white knights have bloody hands. They've spilled rivers of blood, your precious Winchester boys.'_

She had thought she knew what they were, what they did... but somehow, she'd never _**understood**_.

Carver Edlund's books, the FanFiction stories... even being told that the things she'd written of in Montauk were real... None of that had removed the hazy fairy-tale idealism she'd had.

Maybe the vision with the priests had pierced her... but not really, the bad guy did that...

Now she's been forced to contend with visceral gut twisting reality.

Eyes forced wide open, every sense invaded and laid bare. Forced to not just witness the violence, but to become victim and perpetrator, both.

To stare into the faces of people she cares about, as they killed her.

To be ridden by a venomous inhuman hunger, need to possess, and loathing of her killers (but also, to still possess her own love towards them.) the drive to make them suffer (but also horror and grief _for her killers_ ), along with the agony, the feeling of the impacts shuddering through her, the disorientation, the fear. Suffering and agony for what seems an eternity, Deans face a snarl of loathing. His harsh barking words punctuating the impacts. Feeling her bones shatter, her flesh become nothing but twitching meat, to go on thinking through all that. To suffer, _please God make it end,_ so far past the point where a human body would have shut down, passed out, Died.

To ALSO feel her (his… Dean's) hands gripping the wooden bat, feel the killing rage and hate burn inside, as she (he) swung and swung again, and Again...

Turning the beautiful woman before her (him) into nothing but grey splattered mush wrapped in a red rag.

Vengeance, vindication and protective madness, they're all blurred inside her (him) and she (he) doesn't care. _They_ simply wanted to kill the siren, obliterate it, make it pay. Make them all pay. _They_ glory in the singing of _their_ muscles as _they_ felt flesh and bone pulverise under Dean's (not her, please God not hers) swings. Avenging angel or psychotic killer the line is long gone. Flashbacks of Hell and purgatory edge the killers vision.

Sam came around.

"Dean?"

His voice is raspy.

Head sore, ' _something hit me, where am I?'_ confusion, ' _Dean?!'_

Hearing Deans voice, broken diatribe, half slotted together words, panting, almost animalistic snarls, broken off screams and moans, the wet thwack of impacts. _And unhinged barks of laughter._

"Mine... can't have him... fucking siren bitch... don't get him... my... brother... not gonna... let … you… get your hooks in… learnt... that's right scream… keep screamin… gonna pay... can't believe... stole m fucking car... mine... both mine... Siren bitch... why... can't... he… just… meet a... nice girl... But Nooo! Screw him up Worse... fuck... goddamnit... bitch Siren... Mine ... not gonna... mine... hear me… my job..."

Wash of horror, realisation, knowledge and guilt.

Siren? Wash of memory: Perfection ... So beautiful.. Wow! Amazing... Need ...Just want… So right...Please….Yes.

Siren?

Oh God! Fuck, hell, damn! So stupid... how...

Siren! Red dress... see differently... Crap!

 _Dean?_

Wet impacts, blunt force _..._

 _The baseball bat?_

 _That Won't kill it!_

 _Need... Impala ... dagger... song... blood_

Blood, need my blood...bronze dagger... Impala...

Where's the fucking keys?

Unsteady.

There. Thank god!

Okay!

Sharp pain, blood on the blade.

Yanking Dean back (too far gone to protect his own fucking back, damn it Dean!)

Burying the blade in the pulverised creature's chest.

...

Sam looks up from where he's crouched over what's left of the siren, at his older brother who is standing there wide eyed and panting, like he's not really aware of his surroundings.

Deans still holding the bat like he's going to take another swing, he's splattered with gore.

"Dean?" Sam calls " _ **Dean!**_ _Come back to me man_ " his brother startles and gives a full body shudder like he's coming awake glances at the siren's pulped corpse and looks away, but Sam catches the sick expression on his brother's face.

When Dean turns back it's with a cocky smile plastered seamlessly over the cracks".

"Hey Sam, sorry about the head."

"A baseball bat?"

"What I had on me, ya know." A slightly dopey grin, like Dean's stoned or drunk "signed by Babe Ruth Sammy, cool hu?"

…..

Dean had retrieved the impala's keys. Checked Sam for signs of concussion, after the K-O, then with typical older brother caring, Dean had punched his little brother in the arm and declared he had lousy taste in women.

They'd doused the sirens corpse with gasoline and salt, set it on fire and watched the remains become charcoal.

Buried what was left with loam.

Dean had used all their bottled water to clean up the baseball bat…insisted on showing Sam the signature ("Babe Ruth, man!... Now it's been used by two living legends! Cos you know I'm awesome, Sam. I kin really swing one of these things.")

Meanwhile, Dean was still splattered with gore, wearing it like a badge of honour.

They climbed into the impala and hit the road, homeward bound.

After about 20 minutes of silent driving, Sam looked over at his brother

"Hey Dean?"

"Hmph?"

"' _Tell Merril to swing away'?"_ Sam quoted with a half-smile.

Dean chuckled "' _Signs'_ Sam?"

"Ha …Yeah…" A shoulder bump and a shared smirk.

Sam turned back to stare out the window into the darkness, thinking vaguely that he would be glad to get home, to the bunker. That maybe, he should apologise to Michele for not listening.

It had been days since he'd last talked to her and while he wasn't going to give her any details, about anything that had happened in that time… whatever she was, she'd proved often enough she was trying to help, trying to watch their back… Even if she wasn't a prophet…

Okay maybe he wouldn't say anything about the email at all, if she didn't bring it up, letting sleeping dogs lie might be easier.

But he looked forward to the way she always smiled at him, said she was glad they were both home safe. It felt good. Like what he thought coming home was supposed to feel like.


	59. Chapter 59 Baby wipes don't fix that

**Chapter 59**

Sam followed his brother down the bunkers wrought iron stairs, through the war room and into the library. He massaged the back of his neck with a weary groan, feeling the dull throb at the back of his skull. On the scale of one to ten, his headache was a probably a 4. Part lingering pain from being knocked out, part exhaustion from the hectic slew of the proceeding days.

"Hoo-hoo! Back to back to back. That was one for the books." Dean enthused, still on the same jittery almost drugged high he has maintained for the past few hours.

"Yeah." Sam agreed less enthusiastically.

"Man." The elder Winchester examined his newest toy happily. "Dad would love this thing."

Sam couldn't help noticing that while Dean had sluiced it off after the sirens demise, there was still blood and gore caught around the barbed wire.

Dean dropped the baseball bat onto the wooden library table, making the younger Winchester shoot his brother scowl for dropping the barbwire wrapped gore encrusted _thing_ on his favoured space.  
"Dude, on the - on the - ?"

"No, don't, don't, don't, don't! Don't si- " Sam protested, as his brother continued the assult of the men of letters library by slumping his gore splattered body into one of the wingbacked chairs, sighing dramatically.

"What?" Dean asked sending a bewildered pout in Sam's direction.

"Dean, you're covered in ghoul, man, and - and - and wraith" Dean looked down as if only just noticing the gore covering his clothes "And ... I think you have _a piece of siren in your hair._ " He ended, pointing out the bloody chunks caught in his brothers dark hair with an expressive hand. Yes, Sam could hear the disgusted whine in his own voice, but could Dean be any grosser?

Sam watched, wearily repulsed, as his Dean ran his fingers through his short hair, encountered the dried in chunks, of siren, pried a few loose with a groan and examined the bloody bone fragments with a slightly stoned snigger,  
"Gross." He declared.

"Yeah..." Sam agreed, then watched in horrified disgust as his brother proceeded to flick the chunks of siren across the room.

"Dude?!" _(you are so cleaning that up.)_  
Sam took a breath and didn't react with what Dean called 'one of his bitchfits.' Dean _really_ wasn't acting like himself, or maybe he was... just taking jerkhood to a greater extreme today ... either way...

"Why don't you take a shower and change your clothes. You've been wearing the same pair of boxers for four days." Sam tried, hoping to sound reasonable.

"Okay, one. Weird that you know how much underwear I packed."

" _That's_ what's weird about this?"

"And B, it's two and two. Doesn't count if you flip 'em inside out." Dean informed him smugly, with a chlick and a wink, as if he'd just nailed defending worlds most disgusting big brother for the Guinness book of world records.

Further discussion of Deans underwear was thankfully short circuited by the chime of Sam's cell. Sam favoured his brother with a disgruntled huff as he pulled it out of his pocket and checked it.

The message, from "Frodo," aka Mick Davies. British Man of letters, read, "Sheridan County, Nebraska. Missing camper. Bloody aftermath. -M"

Yeah, honestly _not_ the Hobbit he hoped to hear from right now, damn!

"Got another case." He announced with a frown.

"Really?" Dean looked up at him with remarkably less enthusiasm than he'd shown before the ghoul case, in fact he looked a little hangdog for a moment. "Already!? ... How'd you do that?" He demanded.

"Same as the others. I-I made a computer algorithm that scrapes data from police scanners, emergency calls, uh, local news sites, and then it puts everything through a h- " Sam stopped realising his brother was staring at him with a slightly glazed look, yeah probably didn't need to put quite so much effort into the lie.

"The computer told me." He finished, waggled his phone for emphasis and grinned.  
Then momentarily felt a shot of guilt, reminded unpleasantly of lies and Hobbits... advice untaken. _("better to confess your treason's than get caught in the middle of them, Sam.")_  
Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Computers." Dean chuckled appreciatively "Monsters, porn. Is there anything they can't do?" "All right!" Slapping his knee, Dean got to his feet "Well, let's get to it, then."

"Yeah, that's fine. Ahh dude, um… _ **After**_ you get cleaned up."

"I got baby wipes in the car."

"Dude. Dean, _I'm serious, man_." Sam warned "You smell like roadkill." There was no way on earth he was spending more than 5 hours in the car with _that._

Dean looked down at himself again, as if _once again_ , he'd forgotten _what_ he was covered in "That's 'cos I do all the heavy lifting." Dean noted mildly.

" _You_...?!" Sam rolled his head in disbelief and huffed in annoyance.

"All right." Dean sighed as if put upon "But I'm using that fancy shampoo you keep hidden from me." He threatened, childish mode fully engaged.

Sam rolled his eyes and hefted a deep sigh as his brother walked out, _finally_ towards the showers.

...

Michele was curled up around her youngest child, in that old vinyl armchair that seemed to pass for a computer chair in their household.

It appeared at first glance, that both mother and son were sleeping. But, tracking the motion of Michele's fingers as they carded through the kid's hair, Sam realised the mother was awake.

Sam cleared his throat uncertainly "Hey" he greeted, expecting she'd look up at the screen and smile in greeting. Instead she froze momentarily seeming to curl inwards, before taking a deep breath as if bracing herself.

"Hi Sam" she answered softly without looking up.

So maybe, she knew they'd ignored her email, Sam rubbed the back of his neck wondering why he couldn't catch a break.

"Uh Michele ... is everything ... okay?"

"Sam, honey... I'm not sure I can do this... Not... right now." Still, she didn't look up, her voice was quiet, halting, apologetic, somehow... wrong and broken.

It wasn't the voice of a woman who was annoyed about having her advice unheeded.

It was the voice of a civilian that had come face to face with a monster. Unease tightened in his chest.

" _ **Michele,**_ what happened? Did you see something... Or ...did someone ... hurt you?" His rough demands made her flinch, again, ramping his frustration and worry higher.

The urge to check the room for threats, secure the perimeter, get a decent look at her and check for injuries clamoured within him.

All impossible.

"You need to talk to me." He coaxed, using the gentlest voice he could manage.

It worked, she raised her head. Not enough that he could get a decent look at her face, past all that hair and the child in her lap, but he could tell she was studying his face on the screen.

"Sam..." she faded out "I don't know how to answer those questions... not... right now... or even if I _should_..." she swallowed "I'm, I'm _okay_... "

"You don't _sound_ okay. Somethings wrong, If it was a vision. O _r anything else..._ You can talk to me."

Michele made a sound in the back of her throat and pushed her tumble of wild dark hair back from her face, finally sitting up enough so that he could see her.

She was a wreck.

Pale to the point of near translucence. Trembling minutely like she was cold, or in shock.

Behind glasses tide marked with the salt of evaporated tears, her downcast eyes were wary, bloodshot and raw.

A vibrant tear washed green, surrounded with dark circles.

There was a small superficial cut on her bottom lip like she'd bitten through it, but that wouldn't account for all the blood. Splattered down her shirt, smudged across her chin and caught in the crease at the corner of her mouth.

The rusty stain of dried blood drew his eyes uncomfortably, making something clench, low in his stomach.

"You had a vision." Sam hazarded "tell me what you saw."

Michele shook her head, eyes widening like she was scared.

Sam frowned, fighting not to make demands when she looked so fragile,

"No, it wasn't a vision? Or no you can't or _won't_ tell me what's going to happen?" He coaxed.

"Sam ..." her lips parted in a whispered sigh, gathering herself.

"Yes, it was a vision. But it's happened already... so... I... don't think ... Talking about it isn't ... I just need to, to ..." a tear tracked silently down her cheek and she shook her head again, wiping it away with a grimace.

"I just need to _get over it_. It's fine, really..."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, huffing a breath "It's _not fine_. Tell me what you saw... please." Felt the muscles in his jaw jump "Tell me the truth!" His demand was more abrasive than he had intended, resonating with John Winchester.

Green eyes raised resentfully, "You want the truth? I don't think you can handle the truth..." she muttered darkly.

"Try me"

"Baseball ba-t" her voice fractured on the last word.

(' _Oh crap..._ ') Sam grimaced then felt a brief surge of irritation, followed by relief. She was upset by the messy hunt, that was all. She was simply too soft to be a part of their world.

"Michele, I know we didn't listen to your email and things were uh ... messy... but ... that's hunting. It was a siren. They hurt people, feed off their suffering"

"I _**know**_ that Sam. But she _**suffered,**_ _It just ._ _ **.. I just...**_ you have no idea ... how much she suffered, ... before you shoved that knife in her heart.

 _Baseball bats don't kill sirens_..." her eyes were wide, as the words fell from her lips.

"Sirens _hurt people_ Michele." He chided "If we hadn't gone to that bar last night it would have been some other person. She had to die."

"I'm not arguing that... But _Sam_ ... _Baseball bats don't kill sirens._ " she repeated "I know she had to be put down. Rabid dogs need to be put down too, but you _don't_ beat them to splintered bone and mush with a baseball bat. _Not when it doesn't kill them._ Dean, he... "

"Dean, did what he had to do.

It wasn't Human. It was a _**thing**_ that _looked_ human, that's all." He cut her off. Feeling defensive, _Michele had no right to judge his brother._

"My eyes glow when I have a vision, I don't think that's something prophets do, _it it Sam?_

Sliding into people's _**and things**_ heads ... seeing and feeling everything they do, like some sort of parasite... I'm probably _just a_ _ **thing**_ _that looks human too."_ Her voice was sharp and shook with emotion.

"Yeah, we know you're not a prophet." Sam answered mildly then stopped. His brain finally catching up with the rest of what she'd told him.

"S- seeing and F-feeling... inside _**things**_ heads?" He repeated as his stomach plunged.

 _'You have no idea ... how much she suffered... before you shoved that knife in her heart'_ the words came into tight focus suddenly. But surely, she couldn't have experienced _that_. Sam felt sick, it was some cruel joke.

"What...? You...? It...? Oh God! You're not saying..."

A few more tears trailed down her cheeks as she nodded. She swallowed a few times before she could speak.

"It was… bad. Messed up my head, gives a whole new meaning to the 'eye of God' writers view point. But I'll get my head straight." She mumbled rubbing her chest, then realised what she was doing, stopped and looked away.

Sam stared at the screen feeling a lump in his throat, trying to grasp of the situation, how she must feel towards Dean and himself.

Looked down at his hands, unable to meet her eyes on the screen any more.

There was siren blood rimming his nails around the ring and middle finger, he scraped at it with his thumb nail.

For a moment, it wasn't so hard to imagine it belonged to the woman on the other side of the world.

"I'm sorry Sam, I shouldn't have told you."

"How can you... _?"_

 _('How can you say that? How can you even look at me... How can you stand this... you're saying ... Dean... with that bat...that you felt me stab you in the chest? And now you're sitting there saying you're sorry it upsets_ _ **me**_ _?!')_

She shot him a watery smile as if she heard and understood all the things he hadn't said

"It's probably a weird Christian thing Sammy, a combo of 'Father forgive them because they know not what they do' and turning the other cheek. It's part of the job description I guess... God probably picked-"

" **You're not a prophet Michele**!" Sam cut her off suddenly enraged "That's not what prophets do. God didn't _pick you_ , God doesn't care, or know or even give a damn!"

Michele lifted her chin "You know nothing Jon Sno-"

"I know plenty Michele!" He cut her off "I know how screwed up _this_ is. Don't tell yourself you _love_ us, you can't. This is fucking you up in the head. We aren't good for you. You should run and not look back."

Those green eyes flinched

"I _can't_ run Sam; don't you get that?!

I can't run from myself.

 _I know it's messed up Sam_... Do you, do you seriously think I _like_ this? That it's _fun_? That I _like_ experiencing death from all the angles. Or even invading your privacy? That I like having _you_ and _Dean_ and _Things_ that _hate_ and _suffer_ shoved inside of me, until I can barely work out who I am?

That I don't _hate_ having to write it all?

But I _can't_ run from it.

I have limited angles here, hunter boy... I can live with it or kill myself.

I can love you or hate you, but I can't get away from you.

I can look for God and meaning in the shit storm, serve what's right to the best of my abilities. Or I can drive myself mad fighting it and become nothing better than the _things_ you hunt.

Those are my choices.

Sam I'm sorry, I don't want to fight with you, both you and Dean don't need any more strain."

"We're fine." Sam found himself grating defensively.

"I don't think Dean _is_ , Sam. His head was…"she shuddered "I think things with your Mom..."

"Dean and Mom are fine." He barked.

Except he knew they _weren't_ , it was why he'd held back the information about _where_ the British Men of Letters got the Colt, he'd told himself it was better and easier if Dean didn't know. That he was protecting his brother.

"Don't lie to yourself Sam. I _wish_ you'd stop lying to Dean too."

"It's better this way."

"No, it's _easier ..._ right up until the truth comes out. Then things will go to hell." Michele gave an exasperated huff "You're just like my daughters, one lie leads to another, and another. How many lies have you had to tell Dean lately? It's a basic part of growing up Sam, learning to be responsible for your actions and admitting the truth... _Even_ when it's hard."

Those green eyes regarded him from the computer screen, part of Sam writhed under her gaze and resented it.

"You're not my mother." He grated

"No, I'm not. But I _do_ love you and I do believe you can do what's right."

"I hate you." He answered without heat.

Michele snorted "That's a great way to _not_ sound like a sulky teenager Sam." She murmured with mild sarcasm, the blood smearing the corner of her lips curving up in a half smile.

 _ **"Sammy! Are we hitting the road or what?"**_ Deans bellow from down the hall made them both jump.

"Uh, you've got blood on your face." Sam gestured at his own chin and mouth in demonstration.

"You might want... Unless you want to avoid..."

"Thanks. And No! I'm not avoiding him" Michele scrubbed at her face with a handful of baby wipes. Took off her glasses and polished away the tear stains.

"Com'on Sam daylights burning..." Dean bounded through the door stopped dead "Mitch!"

Michele offered his brother a careful smile, there was stress around the edges, but it was fairly convincing

"Hi Dean. Sam didn't tell me you were heading out again, you've only just gotten back, haven't you?"

"No rest for the wicked Mitch, Sammy's computer program thing keeps digging up cases, we'd be gone already but _princess_ here didn't like the way I smelt."

Michele closed her eyes briefly as a small shiver thrummed through her.

"Both you and Sam look _really tired_ Dean, when was the last time you slept or ate properly Hu?"

Dean shrugged slightly but didn't say anything, Michele bit her lip her and shifted slightly.

"Sam's _computer program" Sam noted the emphasis "_ doesn't care if you drive yourselves into the ground, _but I do._

The lecture they give special needs carers and new parents applies here. You boys need to look after yourself as well, Okay? ... It's the long game, you need to guard against burn out and remember you're more than a machine. Good decisions come from clear heads."

Sam looked across at his brother waiting for Dean to brush off her words with a smart comment.

Deans face was oddly still "Yes Ma'am. I'll take care of him."

"No Dean," Michele's eyes seemed to hold Sam's captive "you need to take care of each other, It's a two-way street.

Maybe you could even listen to me occasionally…?"

"Sammy told you about his latest girlfriend hu?" Dean teased and shoved Sam's shoulder.

Both Michele and Sam winced.

"I better go, but remember what I said. Please eat and sleep."

Michele logged off.


	60. Chapter 60 Like Cats and Dogs

**Chapter 60**

 _"Yeah, we know you're not a prophet."_ The words chased themselves round and round Michele's head over the next few hours. The longer she thought about her last conversation with Sam the more it ate at her.

Sam had sounded so completely dismissive.

 _"Yeah, we know you're not a prophet."_

Like it hardly mattered at all.

He hadn't even reacted to the news that her eyes lit up when she had a vision.

Sure, he'd looked a bit sick and unhappy hearing that she'd had an on-stage seat to the sirens death, but did he really care? Or was it just unease over the revelation of how deeply she saw?

Sam hadn't argued with her description of herself, as a _**thing**_ and not human, it bothered her more than she cared to admit. She had come to realise, in those past few hours how much she'd _needed_ for Sam to argue with that assessment, to say she was a good person.  
She'd wanted him to tell her that, of course, she wasn't some sort of monster.  
But he hadn't.

And now, she found herself brooding over the question, if she wasn't a prophet, was there anything else _good_ she could be?  
Maybe _what_ she was didn't matter much to the Winchesters.  
They had worked with Lucifer and Crowley against Amara, then Crowley and the Men of Letters to put Lucifer. Back in the cage.  
Someone who saw their future was a useful tool (except when they ignored her advice.)  
If she was a monster, she wasn't on their turf. She was in a small island nation half a world away, if she became a frothing lunatic, bent on massacring her family; there wasn't much the Winchester brothers could do, so why would they waste their time worrying about it. America was too big for them to stop every bad thing and dead child, New Zealand was _way_ too far away, even with an angel on the pay roll...

Suddenly, something hit her.

And with it came the realisation that her readers weren't the only ones that had been treating her story as a work of fiction.  
She'd been doing it too, there were clues scattered through "The Thing You Hate" she just hadn't seen. Like the glowing eye thing, but more subtle.

A line she had written, had read within the last few weeks, suddenly floated to the surface.  
Things she hadn't really understood suddenly became blazingly clear.

A conversation between Sam and Lilly, the woman with an eyepatch, who had hunted and killed the angels responsible for murdering her daughter.

 _"I get wanting revenge. I really do. But...why wait so long?" Sam had said_

 _"I had no choice. Before the angels fell, before they lost their wings, there would've been no way to hunt them down." Lilly had replied._

 _ **Lost their wings... the angels couldn't zap from place to place.**_ How had she missed it?

It was why the plan to get Lucifer out of the President had required the help of a demon, Crowley king of Hell.

The chain of logic led onwards: if the angels were earthbound then they could only get from place to place the same way a normal person did.

That meant ... even if she had been a prophet, she had _**never**_ been in danger of being abducted by angels and taken from her family (she was on an island nation for goodness sake, what were the angels going to do? Frog march her to an airport and drag her screaming onto a plane? She didn't even have a passport, so really...good luck with that.)

Sam knew the angels were grounded.

Michele found herself frowning. Just like Sam **knew** _ **but hadn't told her**_ _she wasn't a prophet._

...

"Sam how long have you known I'm not a prophet?"

Sam glanced at the message. He hadn't expected to hear from Michele so soon. But, chatting to her via Skype would be a much better distraction from the five-hour drive to Nebraska than the non-existent scenery or his brothers stunted music selections.

"A bit less than two weeks." He typed without really thinking about it.

"Castiel can't teleport anymore? Nor can the other angels, am I right?"

Apparently, Michele wanted to play a game of 20 questions. Sam guessed he could play along. He was pleased she seemed recovered from the stuff with the siren.

"Lucifer can/could. The others, including Cas got their wings damaged when they fell from heaven."

Sam smirked to himself, remembering a moment that might amuse his friend.

"Get this, this one-time Dean thought it would be funny to ask Cas if it hurt when he fell from heaven ... like the pickup line...  
Cas just looked at him totally dead serious and said "Yes, it did Dean." Totally deadpan like he does.  
Dean didn't know exactly how to react, it was insanely difficult to just stand there, with the two of them staring at each other sort of shocked and not laugh.  
Speaking of Cas, we were thinking... next time Cas is back in the bunker, you two should talk."  
There were several minutes without a reply, Sam wondered if Michele was doing her usual back-pedalling on the topic of Angels or if his phone had lost coverage.

"Why?" Her response was uncharacteristically short.

"Because Cas can help."

Again, minutes ticked by "How did you work out that I'm not a prophet, Sam?"

Maybe he could get her to see Cas wasn't a threat, that he had information that could help if she would just talk to him.

"Cas said there aren't any active prophets alive and no viable candidates born yet.  
Apparently, all the prophet's names were seared an angel's minds. Cas _**can**_ help you.  
Talking to Cas will help you understand things, your belief that God has this larger plan for everything, it isn't real or helping you Michele."

"Speaking of not helping, I'm assuming you decided I didn't needed to know the information about me not being a prophet ... _**For nearly two weeks.**_ Because obviously - while I tell you everything and try to give you as much information, as soon as possible. You seem to think I'm a mushroom."

Suddenly Sam was reminded of a suspected Bigfoot hunt, years before he left for Stanford.  
They'd been separated, searching for proof the witness had any credibility, when he'd found his way onto a frozen pond, covered in a foot of snow. Totally unaware.  
Going had been easy and he'd actually been feeling pretty great, tramping over the packed snow with the brilliant blue sky arched above.  
Right up until the moment when there was a sickening "crack" below his feet and the world had plunged out from under him.

"Sam let's get something straight, I may not see everything and I may not be in your world, but I'm not dumb. I know Castiel won't be taking a break from his Nephilim hunt to hop a plane for the other side of the world and fix me, I'm pretty sure he doesn't have a passport, he's busy trying to stop the end of the world by angel human hybrid, for starters.  
All you can really offer me is information, but let's be honest about that too, shall we?  
What info have you given me? Nothing.  
Not even, til I worked it out for myself - asked you about it - the fact the angels can't teleport. That they couldn't have taken me anywhere, even if I WAS a prophet.  
But I'm not, apparently. And AGAIN, you couldn't be bothered to share that information. You said we are friends, that you want to help me, but your actions, your actions say differently. How many times have we talked in the past two weeks. its not like you didn't have opportunity. UGH!  
Maybe it's because you can only see me as a tool or a dumb little pet.  
But, If I'm your pet, I'm a cat not a bloody dog, Sam.  
The thing about cats is they don't put up with crap, or stick round if they don't like the way they're treated, they leave.  
I may HAVE to write the Winchester gospel. But I DON'T have to tell you what I see.  
You may think my faith isn't real, but it's because I'm a Christian that I tolerate and forgive. You think my faith is a delusion, that it isn't real? Well it's one that's helping you, isn't it?  
People living in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.  
I'm beyond tired of your secrets, lies and disrespect.  
Don't worry though, if I have a vision I'll let you know the details.  
I may be a thing with glowing eyes; but to me, not telling someone something they need to know, it's the same as lying to them.  
And not telling someone something that might save their life is the same as murder."

Sam read through the block of words in a frozen rush, feeling shocked and half drowned under the torrent of them.  
Unable to formulate a fitting argument or a response before the next sentence popped up.

"Stay safe, Sam. I wish I didn't at times. But I do care about you both."

Michele logged off.

...

Sam had been staring out his window for over an hour since his conversation with Michele.  
No, it wasn't a conversation, damn it!  
She'd demanded answers, jumped to conclusions and unloaded on him, then run.  
It was frustrating as hell.

She made it sound... it wasn't like ... didn't she get...

Should he send her a message to respond to her words? Or leave her to cool off?

Sam glanced at his brother for the hundredth time wondering what Dean would say, but felt reluctant to share.

 _('What lies is she talking about Sam?' Dean would want to know, because usually, Michele was reasonable. And that would bring up things he didn't want to tell Dean, about the siren and the Men of letters.)_

Huffing a sigh, he let the world outside his window wash over him to the strains of Metallica's "Some kind of Monster" and Deans gravelly voice belting out the lyrics.

 _('_ _This is the tongue that whips you down  
_ _This is the burden of every man  
_ _These are the screams that pierce your skin  
_ _This is the voice of silence no more')_

A rough counterpoint to the anger/ guilt/ resentment that slip-slid underneath his skin.

 _('_ _This is the test of flesh and soul  
_ _This is the trap that smells so good  
_ _This is the flood that drains these eyes  
_ _These are the looks that chill to the bone_ ')

It was all he could do not to groan and beg for mercy under the onslaught.

Each word from his brother's lips and the impala's speakers resonating with the resentful pounding of his anger, the twisting avoidance in the pit of his stomach and the nagging brush of guilt he was unwilling to examine.

When his phone rang it was a relief and surprise to see his mother's name come up.  
Usually she rang Dean.  
Sam felt a small curl of warmth and connection flex inside, maybe working with the Men of Letters could become a bridge, the beginning of something good.

"Sam?"

"Hey Mom, how're you?" He greeted warmly.

"Mick would like to know how far away from Sheridan county you are." Sam felt a moment of disappointment, it was work stuff.  
Sam glanced across and met his brothers questioning eyes, felt the need to hedge and watch what he said.

"Yeah, we have another case, missing camper, animal attack, we're" Sam caught sight of the flashing squad car lights through the trees "uh... pretty much here now. How are things with you Mom?"

Deans phone rang, Dean answered it.

"We've just returned from Akron, a haunting case. It was easy. Open and shut, we spent more time traveling there and back than working the case." His mother informed him "Mick would like to know if you require anything."

"Oh, really? that's great, Mom. Oh.- No, we're - we're fine. We, uh... " There was so much he wanted to say, to share, about the past few hunts, maybe even about his current frustration…

Mary broke in "Sam I have to go, Ketch wants input on the report. I love you both." Mary Winchester's voice was suddenly rushed and closed off, her declaration of love tacked nervously on the end.

"Yeah. Love you, too… Right, uh bye" He replied, feeling hollow, as his mother hung up.

They pulled up and both brothers climbed out of the impala.

"All right, Cas. Let us know." Dean finished his call, they walked towards the crime scene.

"You first." Dean invited.

"Mom just finished working a haunting in Akron."

"The Brits?"

"Yeah." Sam answered shortly feeling uncomfortable, looked away.

"Great. Who you gonna call? Douchebusters." Dean muttered with a sour smile.

"What about you?" Sam queried with a short sigh, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"That was Cas. He's in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. Someone's killing angels... Again."

...

"This is dumb. It's a dumb idea." Dean muttered.

"Listen, Gwen saw something kill her boyfriend, and she thinks it's coming for her next. We just gotta tell her—"

"Tell her what?" Sam sighed in response to his brother's demand "No, seriously, Sam, what are you gonna say? "Hi, my name is Sam Winchester. This is my much handsomer brother, Dean. We hunt monsters. Oh, and that guy you were banging? We're pretty sure he made a deal with a demon, so a hellhound came and dragged his soul to Hell. But you? You're cool. And since there's nothing around for us to kill, peace out."

"You done? Yeah, we don't say that, Dean.  
We'll say something that'll … give her peace. You know, help her sleep at night."

"Oh, so we lie?" Dean rumbled.

Sam sighed, reminded uncomfortably of Michele "Yeah. A- a lot." He replied, cleared his throat and rung the doorbell

A pretty but worn looking brunette, eyes ringed with shadow, opened the door "Gwen Hernandez? Uh, Agents Baker and Clapton. FBI. May we come in?" Dean began the spiel.

….

"Oh, yeah. She's gonna sleep like a baby." Dean muttered sarcastically after Gwen tossed them out.

Sam had done his 'It was a bear and its dead, so you're safe,' stich.  
Apparently, Gwen knew what she'd seen and would rather keep believing _that_ , than settle for Sam's nice lie.  
And with that, the case was over.

Until a scream came from behind them, spinning them round and sending them barrelling straight back to the house.  
Apparently, they had been wrong. - Not over after all.

Gwen was pinned to the floor screaming when they burst into the room.  
Claw marks gouged the wood floor, imprints of giant paws sunk into the rugs deep pile, straddling the girl's body.  
The carpet shredded on either side of Gwen's head.  
Dean fired, heard yelps of pain, then the window exploded outwards as the hellhound beat a hasty retreat.

…

And now, here Sam was sitting across a table from Gwen, with the brunette looking at him with shocked, accusing brown eyes. Eyes that asked why he hadn't just told her the truth to begin with.

"Gwen, that, um, that _thing_ was a hellhound." Sam began.

"A… what?"

"Hellhound. Kind of hard to explain." Dean offered from his perch across the room "Uh, basically, giant, invisible hounds from Hell. Ha. Wasn't hard at all." Dean chuckled to himself.

"So, you guys are not cops, are you?"

"No, not exactly. Um...My name is Sam. That's my brother Dean. And we hunt monsters." Sam felt a twist of irony at echoing Deans earlier sarcastic tirade.

"And we've tangled with hellhounds in the past. Goofer dust'll keep 'em out. A demon knife or an angel blade, that'll kill 'em." Dean splashed a bucket load of information at Gwen's feet, while Sam found himself shooting her an apologetic grimace.

"Uh… wait, so why did you tell me that Marcus got killed by a bear?" Gwen asked.

"Make you feel better." Dean answered, pointed at Sam "It was his idea."

Sam sighed "Listen, I know this sounds insane—"

"It does." Gwen conceded "But… like I said, I know what I saw. And what I saw was insane."

"Right. Now this is awkward, but, um… hellhounds only come after people who sold their souls… to a demon." Sam began uncomfortably.

"So about ten years ago, did you really want something? Like… I don't know, a Hello Kitty backpack or the death of an enemy?" Dean continued with much less tact.

"No." Gwen answered sounding puzzled and not at all guilty or defensive.

"What about Marcus? Did he… would he—"

"No." Gwen answered firmly.

"Hmm. Great… So, _what the hell_?" Dean muttered.

"I don't know." Sam answered his brother "But I do know who we can ask."

…..

"What the hell do you want?" Crowley's voice growled through the cell phone's speaker full of angry venom.

"All right, peaches, I get that you're still upset about the whole, uh…" Dean waved his hand as he attempted to sooth the King of Hell's ruffled feathers.

"Upset? No. I'm totally over how you and your little band of misfits sent my son back in time... _**to die**_!" The monarch hissed. Gwen raised her eyebrows at Sam and shifted uncomfortably.

Dean glanced over at Gwen, realising maybe this wasn't a discussion best done over speaker phone with a civilian in the room, took Crowley off speakerphone.

….

"Okay, look, that was totally Gavin's call. All right? You know what? We have a situation here."

"Oh, well, in that case...Bye."

"Hellhounds, Crowley" Dean cut in before Crowley could end the call "One of your mutts is going after folks who didn't sell their souls."

"Not possible." Crowley grated

"You sure about that?"

There was a pause, Crowley lowered the phone to address someone. "My hounds… You have anything to tell me?"

"Well… we didn't wanna bother you…" a faint fawning voice replied "It was Ramsey. She got out, my Lord…" And bingo

"Have the kennel guards killed… Painfully!" Crowley snapped.

Dean rolled his eyes at Gwen and Sam, mimed Crowley yammering on with one hand. No big loss, one less demon after all.

"I'll be right…" Crowley continued in Deans ear, then appeared in Gwen's living room "-Here."

"Mm." Sam cleared his throat glancing at Gwen expecting shock but she seemed surprisingly un-phased by the sudden appearance of a man in a black suit.

"You miss me?" Crowley asked coyly, with a cocky half smile.

...

"Well, why is she after Gwen?" Dean asked after everyone was up to date and Crowley had told a riveting tale about where Hell hounds came from.

"Ask her." Crowley challenged.

"I… I don't… um… When it attacked us, I did hit it... With an axe."

"Well, there you go." Crowley answered "The bitch does tend to hold a grudge. So, we either kill Ramsey, or the hound eats her." Crowley clapped his hands together "Fun." He enthused dryly.

Sam was surprised "Wait a second." raised a hand in surprise "We?""

Crowley shrugged as if it was self-evident "Pup like that out and about is not good for business. Makes it look like I'm not in control. But that mutt's head mounted on my wall? Good for the brand. So, yes, Moose. For now, "we."" Crowley looked positively chipper.

Dean snorted "Great. So, we have a hellhound who's gunning for revenge, and it's personal.  
Ah. Just when I thought this gig couldn't get any weirder... "

Crowley chuckled "Oh. It can always get weirder."


	61. Chapter 61 Ghosts make our cups of tea

**Chapter 61**

Back at the campsite where Ramsey had attacked Marcus, Dean sorted through the impala's trunk finding what he was looking for quickly, while his thoughts darted this way and that like a school of tropical fish trapped behind glass at a pet store.

Hellhounds.

They had learnt so much since the first time they encountered them in Missouri.  
But their learning curve had been a gory trail of guilt horror and loss. Dean closed his eyes and stuffed those thoughts down deep where he wouldn't have to look at them and turned to the matter at hand.

"So, hellhounds are invisible to humans… unless you sold your soul," Dean slammed the impala's trunk, "- and they're after you." he finished, trying to sound business-like as he handed Sam his pair of glasses.

"Or, uh, you're wearing a pair of these." Sam held up the glasses "They're glasses treated with holy fire." Sam continued the lecture looking into Gwen's not totally convinced eyes, while Crowley watched with a superior smirk.

Dean still felt unhappy with the plan, but at least it should keep Sam and Gwen out of harm's way.

"All right, Crowley and I are gonna hit the woods, see if we can't track down Cujo. You stick with Sam. He'll keep you safe." Sam nodded agreement looking strained

"Okay." Gwen answered getting in the car.

Dean suddenly looked unhappy, flashed Sam a worried look "Take care of her." He demanded green eyes fixed on his brother's face.

"Of course." Sam studied his brothers face solemnly "Dean, look, even if Ramsey circles back, as long as we keep moving, Gwen's gonna be just…"

At the mention of the girl's name Dean looked away irritated and Sam's brain finally caught up, he rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly, chuckling "Hu! You're talking about the car!"

"You tend to ride the brakes." The older hunter opinioned.

"Dean, I know how to drive." He argued.

"I'm just saying." Dean stated shortly "...Okay, just imagine she's a… a beautiful woman."

"Oh, come o-n." Sam turned away.

"A beautiful, beautiful woman." Dean motioned at his cars glossy curves.

"Get out of here. I'm done." Sam held up a hand and fled inside the impala to escape anything else Dean might wish to tell him… about the impala and his long and torrid love affair with the old car.

"Sam... "

Dean stared at his beloved car anxiously and Crowley stared at Dean, frankly amused.

"Ewww "The King of Hell intoned, with a leer.

"Come on." Dean muttered with a chagrined wave, refusing to watch his brother drive off.

...

The knock on the door startled her when it came.  
Michele opened the door, expecting to see a courier with a pile of boxes of alarm parts for her husband. Or someone with a clipboard in their hands and a cliched patter about how this power company or that would save her family x-hundred dollars on her yearly power bill.

Instead, a tall thin lady in her early 60's with short no nonsense iron grey hair stood there, holding a disposable plastic plate with a chocolate cake balanced on it.

Shona, Michele's brain helpfully offered, Shona from church.  
Shona attended the church Michele's family (in theory) attended, she had also come to the bible study group Michele had ended up running years ago (before autism, a youngest child with delayed development... and of course, the tendency to leak blood and have visions. A very different Michele, one that it hurt to remember, truth be told.)

"Shona! What a surprise" Michele greeted with a slightly puzzled smile. "It's, nice, to see you."

"You and your family have been in my thoughts and prayers ...a lot, lately... so, I thought I'd bake you a cake." Shona finished shoving the cake into Michele's hands looking every bit as surprised to be standing on Michele's doorstep, as Michele was to see her there.

Michele felt a flicker of amusement, she'd been where Shona stood, having someone's name suddenly on laid on your heart, a niggly little prickle in the back of your mind that reminds you to pray, but then expects you to do something more.

And maybe, you try to ignore it, tell yourself it's your imagination because you are too busy or don't really know them ... but it doesn't go away.  
So, in the end... you bake a cake or a make a meal and turned up on the persons doorstep feeling awkward, uncertain and nervous ... but by now you are willing.

Because deep down you _know_ you are _supposed_ to be there.  
And sometimes you'll get an answer as to why you are there and sometimes you won't, but in the end, it doesn't matter, because even if you don't know, God does.

"This is really nice of you Shona, would you like to come in and have a coffee?"

It was the first time Shona had visited her home and Michele looked around a little embarrassed, noting 2 basket loads of clean washing half spilled on the couch, waiting to be folded, the toys books and colouring in supplies scattered everywhere and the dirty plates and cups from lunch still sitting on a towel in the middle of the lounge floor (from an improvised picnic lunch with Mr 2.)

Flushing a little in embarrassment, seeing her messy home through a stranger's eyes, Michele hastily gathered up the dirty dishes in one hand while balancing the cake in the other.

"Sorry for the" a gesture round the living room "...mess. Some days... don't go to plan" she explained awkwardly.  
On the up side at least Shona's visit wasn't happening during the Siren vision. It paid to be grateful for small mercies...

Shona waved a hand dismissively, "I raised three children, Michele. I remember what it was like. And that was without everything I hear you have on your plate."

Michele put the cake down on the kitchen table, filled the kettle and put it on to boil. Wondering what people said about her family and what people said she had on her plate.

"So, thanks again for the cake, my lot go through baking like there's no tomorrow... Umm tea, coffee or hot chocolate." Michele tilted some coffee cups.

"Coffee would be nice, black like my hair... used to be.  
I haven't seen you at church recently" Shona began.

Michele tensed, she couldn't help it, awash in sudden guilt ... it had been over a month since her family had darkened the church's doorway but... it was so HARD with a child that couldn't cope with noise and strangers, would randomly have a meltdown or become a curled up shaking mess, over things other kids found fun ... And that was _without_ adding all the other _crazy_ , Sam and Dean, the random visions and bleeding thing. She just ... couldn't cope with... _anything else.  
_  
Some of those thoughts, the feeling of drowning, must have shown on her face.

"I know we should... " Michele began staring at the coffee cups intently as she spooned, poured and stirred.

Shona took the younger woman's hands in both of her own, stilling the motion with strong sinew and bone under that fragile old lady skin.

"No! Don't apologize ... It's okay! I have no idea what you and your family are going through and I'm not here to give you a lecture on church attendance... God doesn't want to give you more burdens.

He cares and wants you to know you're loved and He's _Proud_. Though maybe it doesn't feel like it, God gave you these boys for a reason ... and you can and _are_ giving them what they need to get through this, to do what they are supposed to in God's plan.  
I know it seems so unfair ... to have s-o much put on you, but you were formed for this purpose... It says in the bible that God never gives us more than we can handle."

Michele felt tears fill her eyes "I'm not so sure about that... I don't... I'm not... _God thinks too much of me_. I'm not strong enough, good enough, kind enough, patient enough, I lose my temper and get so angry some days, say stuff I shouldn't. I don't know what I'm doing... not with ... _any of it._  
And sometimes I think I'm doing more harm than good" She articulated brokenly, thinking about things with Sam and Dean as much as with her sons, as a torrent of tears trickled down.

Shona led her to the lounge and sat her down, wrapped an arm around her shoulder, spoke softly and soothingly, let her cry.

"God never choses already 'enough' people if you read the bible.  
So, He makes us enough. His grace is the enough, His power is made perfect in our weakness. Maybe that's why I'm here, to remind you it's okay to be human... that God's got this, even if you feel like you don't."

"I'm sorry" Michele muttered miserably after a few minutes, finding some much-needed control and wiping the tears away with the back of her hand. Feeling like an utter idiot over breaking down, she really didn't know this lady that well. How mortifying.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, I remember something similar happening to me once, I was about your age and I had an awful fight with my step daughter Kelsey, I was at my ropes end.  
Doris Silver turned up with a pie, and I fell to bits all over her, not a few tears like you honey ... real snotty disgusting sobbing" Shona chuckled "That lady was a real saint of God. She handed me one of her embroidered hankies and told me what I'm going to tell you.

You aren't enough! And you don't have to be. Not by yourself, let God use what you've got and leave it in His hands. You feel like you're in a battle you can't win right now, but you're not alone, not the only one responsible for the people you love, God is too, because He Loves your dear boys more than you ever could.  
You can't lose if you let God do his work. Your job is to keep going. Love them the best you can when they aren't lovable. It's okay to get mad, Doris said that said to me and I believe it now, sometimes you need to.  
But temper it with love and use it to help your boys and yourself grow. Say sorry and admit it when you mess up and forgive them when they mess up.  
That is the Godliest thing you can do. It's _so_ very important that you don't stop what you're doing. Your boys need someone who doesn't walk out or give up on them."

Michele had the strangest sensation, like the whole conversation was a double exposed photo. As if the woman before her was relaying a coded message.

...

Sam was silently enjoying driving the impala through the night, despite the situation and being hyper aware of every time his foot touched the brake pedal.

"I'm sorry." Gwen broke the silence in a quiet voice.

Sam looked across at her "For what?" He queried.

"This. It's all my fault."

"Gwen, this is not your fault." He answered soothingly.

"Yes, it is. What happened to Marcus..."

In side glances, Sam saw Gwen close her eyes, grimace as if she was remembering the attack again, then look sick.

"Pull over- Please." She demanded grimly.

"Okay." Sam agreed swerving to the side of the road, thinking how unimpressed Dean would be if the girl puked inside his brothers _beautiful, beautiful_ ... car.

Gwen lurched out, staggered a few steps and vomited.

After a few moments Gwen got back in, wiping her mouth and face. She was weeping silently and looked wrung out, shaky and pale in the darkness.

"You okay?" He asked hesitantly, wondering if he should reach out and lay a hand on her shoulder or something.

"I... "Gwen sighed wearily "I don't think I even know what "okay" means anymore."

Sam looked away as Gwen took a deep breath.

"Marcus… going camping was my idea. I took him out there even though I knew. I knew it was _over_."  
Gwen sniffed "I liked Marcus. He was sweet and kind. And he _loved_ me." Sam felt a weird uncomfortable shiver at her words, Gwen inhaled deeply "More than I ever loved him. More than…" another shaky pained breath "If I'd just told him…"  
"If I… Why couldn't I just tell him the truth?" She demanded of herself harshly.

"Gwen..." Sam began, but Gwen ignored him.

"Yeah, but I didn't." Her voice broke "I _**lied**_. I lied to make things easier." Gwen curled in on herself crying.

Sam swallowed and looked down, another conversation echoed at the back of his mind

 _("Don't lie to yourself Sam. I wish you'd stop lying to Dean too."_

 _"It's better this way"_

 _" No, it's easier...")_

Michele and her obsession with telling the truth was becoming a ghost that haunted his thoughts. One he couldn't salt and burn.

"I… I'm sorry. I…" Gwen's voice broke him from his revere "We should go."

Sam sighed "Right."

As he went to start the car, a flash of red in the darkness. Sam jolted back in shock visualising the glowing red eyes and the there-but-not-there form of a giant Hellhound as it appeared in front of the car.

"What?"

"She's here." Sam informed the girl beside him grimly.

Ramsey snarled, then the hood dented, the car rocked and the windscreen crazed with spider web cracks, when the Hellhound leapt onto the car.  
Gwen whimpered and cringed down in her seat, letting out small breathy cries with each new impact.

"It's okay. It's okay. Stay calm." Sam soothed as the car rocked and the blows continued.

"Oh, my god." Gwen whimpered eyes wide with terror. Sam stared into the glowing red eyes through the windscreen, praying silently the glass didn't give out.

Taking another breath, telling himself "All right." firmly, in a facsimile of Dad and Deans competent tones, Sam figured he better work out a plan.

The Hellhound was making its way over the length of the car testing for a way in. Sam watched its progress over the roof, onto the trunk and off the car.

"We should leave." Gwen urged desperately

"No, no, no, Gwen. I gotta take care of this." He scrambled to find an angel blade in the weapon duffle, heart hammering "It's the only way she'll stop."

As he pulled out the blade, there was another impact on the car's rear and the back window crazed with cracks.

Well now he knew where the Hellhound was.

"Stay in the car. Stay in the car!" He urged

"Okay." Gwen agreed watching him slide out of the car and slam the door.

Sam backed away from the car, eyes on Ramsey and blade at the ready, his heart seemed to leap into his throat. He was reminded horribly of the hell trials and the chaos after, in that moment.

Realising half of its prey was now in the open, the hound leapt down off the car and turned to face Sam, rumbling a deep growl of anticipation.

Sam attempted to brace himself as the creature lunged towards him then leapt, but it moved faster than he anticipated, slammed into his chest, it like being hit by a small car. He was thrown backwards.

The holy fire glasses flew from his face.

Two giant paws landed heavy and immovable on his upper arms, pinning the hand with the angel blade uselessly to the road.  
As if taunting him, the hound lingered growling menacingly.  
It's breath like old carrion and brimstone, burnt his eyes, left him gasping.

Helpless and awaiting a mauling like the one that had ended his brother's life.

Then suddenly, there was hollow sound of impact, a yelp, as the hound was suddenly gone.

Sam scrambled to his feet.

Realising what had happened upon seeing Gwen standing there panting in terror, hanging onto their old green cooler like grim death.

Sam backed towards the girl, eyes scanning desperately for some sign of where the invisible monstrosity was.

There! Hot brimstone breath in the chill night air, turned to vapour.

Sam watched as each pant of breath stalked closer, then as the creature leapt forward, he stepped in.

Stabbed upwards with the angel blade.

Felt the resistance, the wash and splatter of black blood across his skin.

Pitiful yelping.

Then silence as the creature fell away.

Sam shivered as he looked down at himself, feeling the rapidly cooling blood seeping into his clothing and coating his hands.

 _("Rabid dogs need to be put down")_ a soft voice brushed through his memory like a sigh of relief.

Glancing at Gwen and smiling as reassuringly as he could Sam pulled out his phone to call his brother, tell him the job was done.

...

Dean stood there, hands in his pockets, surveying the damage to the Impala silently.

Gwen and Crowley stood back, removed from the two hunters, as if to distance themselves from the silent death rays that emanated from the elder as the younger stood, slightly slumped awaiting his brothers wrath.

"And his is why you don't drive!" Dean declared with an angry gesture.

Sam grunted and rolled his head but didn't argue with his brother's assessment.

"So... it's over?" Gwen asked in a small voice, trying to deflect attention from her saviour.

"It's over." Crowley assured her, while eyeing the damage to the impala sombrely.

Suddenly Gwen threw her arms round Crowley and hugged him.

"Thank you!" She gushed.

Dean looked nearly as uncomfortable as the King of Hell did, but Sam couldn't help a huff of quiet amusement, impulsive little brunettes and their weird impulses to hug and say 'Thank you' it was nuts...

Except, for a moment, Crowley's face softened and he got almost the same look Dean got occasionally in the face of one of Michele's gestures of warmth.

"Yeah. Ah, dog dead. Must be going." Crowley muttered uncomfortably.

And maybe it was remembering Michele's implication that he took the people that helped them for granted, or maybe it was the urge to increase Crowley's discomfort. But for a second… he really...

"Hey, Crowley. Wait a second. Um… ... Thank you." He said awkwardly.

Crowley stared at him for a long moment, then gave Sam a tight-lipped half twitch.  
It could almost have been… a smile. And then he disappeared without another word.

Sam scoffed and shook his head while the silence stretched awkwardly.

"He seems nice." Gwen offered.

"Yeah." Dean replied sarcastically with a fake smile and a nod, looking at his brother sideways like he'd gone nuts.

Sam cleared his throat.

Dean's eyes slid back to his car "Let's get in. Hopefully it still runs." He groused unhappily.

...

Michele rubbed bleary eyes and stared at the computer screen with a sigh.

She'd been awake most of the night.

Writing.

Thank goodness, her husband was away again.

The problem with her job as _not-prophet_ and writer of the Winchester gospels was that she usually only got something approaching a decent picture of what happened with Sam and Dean weeks after the fact.

Yes, she got her visions of the future, but it was only after she wrote/read her fic that the pieces got fitted together in anything resembling an actual picture and that was always weeks in arrears.

It made sense and she was glad, if anyone found her story, wanted to use it against the Winchester brothers they'd be weeks behind the gun.

Apparently, that _posting schedule_ was going to continue.

But the story of the past few weeks, chapters and chapters of it, were now sitting in neat black and white word documents on her hard drive. Mocking her or reassuring her, she couldn't tell.

Hindsight was twenty-twenty vision.

An outside perspective was a great and terrible thing, especially when you were forced to write it yourself.

While she may have been (sort of) right she was also _(quite)_ wrong too, because a vast percentage of her anger had been rooted in thinking Sam didn't give a damn. And she could see now, that he did. Seeing that sapped most of her anger and self-righteousness.

At the end of the day, her friend Sam was human. He and his brother were just trying to make the world a better, safer place, using the tools they had. The way they knew how. She _was_ one of those tools. Since Shona's visit, she believed more strongly that she was supposed to help them.

She still didn't like a lot of Winchester methods, (thought they were stupid and wrong personally) but looking at things clearheaded, she knew Sam didn't know any better.

He didn't _mean_ any of it.

Most of the things she objected to could be traced back to how John had raised them. Withholding information and using people (even if you did give a damn about them) while taking them for granted, making promises that got forgotten under the pressures of the _more important job_ of hunting things and saving people: the family business.

That was the status quo of his life.

It was a case of "ghosts make our cups of tea" the phrase coined by author and clinical psychologist Nigel Latta.  
That we do what our parents or other role models did, (unless we recognise that, and try to change) we often don't even notice it ... just like most people drink their tea or coffee like their parents do.

On the surface Sam was the 'nicer' 'more well balanced' Winchester brother.

He had rejected his father's ideals on the surface, but under that he was _still_ his father's son.  
Doing what he'd been raised to think of as normal.

Michele sighed and rubbed her gritty eyes again feeling physically and emotionally exhausted. She understood Sam and the flow of events better now, but couldn't help wondering if it changed anything.

She had always promised herself she wouldn't be like her mother... but here she was, tied to a messed-up guy who took her for granted and was prone to violence, telling herself it was Gods will, and making excuses for him.

Sam _was_ a better man than her father (and a better man than his own.)

But there was an uncomfortable twist of irony to it. Her ghosts weren't even dead but they brewed a mighty fine cup of tea, and she'd never had the luxury of lying to herself, she was more trapped than her mother had ever been and despite her angry words to Sam she was uncertain if she could bring herself to turn away… which left her dreading watching herself in the mirror, as she drank down every drop.

Michele shut down the computer and sought her bed, wishing for her husband's steady warmth beside her, to keep the darkness of her thoughts at bay.

...

Sam and Dean were making their way down the bunker stairs from the garage when Dean's phone rang.

"Cas, what's up?"

"Hey, I think I have a lead on Kelly Kline."

"Yeah?" Dean asked encouragingly.

"She's with Dagon, Prince of Hell." Cas answered shortly.

"All right, what do we know about him?" Sam queried hopefully.

"Actually, it's a her. And not much. It's just rumours and stories.  
Dagon is mostly known for her psychotic savagery."

Both brothers shared a look "Great, so where's Kelly?"

"Well, she _was_ in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. _Now_... I'm not sure..." Cas sounded tired, almost depressed.

"All right, well, we'll spread the word. Let us know if you find anything." Dean answered.

"Of course." Cas hung up.

Dean looked thoughtful, staring off into the middle-distance, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.  
"He sound weird to you?" He queried after a moment.

Sam's phone buzzed before either could pursue the thought further.  
Sam turned his back to his brother to check it, guiltily.

"Mm, is that your computer talking to you again?"

Sam stared at the incoming call from "Frodo" (Mick Davies) for a moment before refusing the call.

 _('How many lies have you had to tell Dean lately?')_ The ghost of Michele's voice queried softly.

Sam took a breath looking down at his phone again, feeling a flare of resolve.

"Uh… No. Um…" he began painfully "It's, uh… Mick Davies."

"What?"

"Dean… I don't have a computer program feeding me cases."

Dean stared at him silently, as he stumbled his words onwards.

"I-I, uh… Gwen.. Every job we've worked in the last two weeks." He inhaled deeply. "They've come from the British Men of Letters."

Dean looked away, tossed his own phone aside.  
"Really?" He asked one hand on his hip.

"Yeah. I didn't tell you 'cause I know how much you hate them."

"No, _we_ hate them. _Us. Together_." Dean corrected defensively.

"I-I get that. Yeah, I do. But - but..." Sam shrugged his shoulders and gestured widely "Dean, because of Mick and his guys, the Alpha Vampire is dead."

Dean looked aside (probably thinking, that was more down to Sam and their Mom.)

"They get results." Sam argued "I don't like them either, but- but if- if we can save people, then it…"

Sam took a breath and stopped, looked at his brother with shining eyes.  
"Either way, I-I shouldn't have lied to you. And…" he shook his head hangdog "I'm sorry, man. I-I..." Sam bit his lip, running out of words.

Dean shook his head studying the floor at his feet.

"Well, okay."

Sam looked surprised and stared at his brother "Okay?"

Dean took a breath, met Sam's eyes "What do you want me to say?  
Do I like it? No.  
Do I trust them? _Hell, no!_  
But you're right."

Dean swallowed before rushing on.

"We work with people we don't trust all the time. I mean, hell, I just Liam Neeson'd it up with _Crowley_. So, if you wanna give this a shot, then…" Dean nodded to himself "Fine. But the minute- and I mean _the second_ —" Dean gestured for emphasis "something feels off, _**we bail!"**_

"Yeah. Of course. Deal." Sam agreed quickly.

Sam's phone began vibrating again.

"It's Mick." Sam offered holding up his phone to show his brother as it buzzed on.

"Pick it up." Dean grated.

"This is Sam…" he answered the phone, locking eyes with his brother.

….

Sam huffed a breath of relief as he hung up the phone from his conversation with Mick, he wasn't sure if he could have coped with another job quite so soon.

"Well, that was fun." Dean grumbled sarcastically "If we're finished with our new limey playmates, I'm gonna go start workin on those dents…"

"Dean, just a sec…. So, ummm there's something else…"

Dean winced "What?!"

"Michele's kinda pissed at me…"

"What'd you do?"

Sam explained, showed him the transcript of the last Skype conversation.

"Well Sam, that's what ya get for picking up strays', keepin' secrets and not tellin' your brother stuff…. So… good luck with that."

Dean smirked unsympathetically slapping his little brother on the back and walked away with more spring in his stride than Sam considered the situation merited.


	62. Chapter 62 Viewing angles

**Chapter 62**

Sam Winchester wasn't a coward, no one could accuse him of being a coward, he'd knowingly jumped into small box in Hell with the Devil, forewarned about exactly the torment he was in for.

Sam Winchester wasn't someone who backed down from an argument either, if he had been, his teenaged years as John Winchester's son would have played out differently.

But he'd admit to himself that he'd been avoiding this particular confrontation, would still be avoiding it if it wasn't for Deans mocking grin as he had asked this morning at breakfast, _oh so causally_ , how Sam's little pussy cat was.

Dean had simply cocked an eyebrow at his younger brother's clenched jaw and lack of answer on the topic, but that spoke volumes of condemnation.

So here he was staring at the Skype app thinking it was just as well he'd never become a lawyer, because he couldn't seem to build a defence case for shit.

Maybe that was because he had long since begun to see the prosecutions side of things.

Maddeningly a liturgy from one of pastor Jim's services floated into his mind, bringing with it memories of pastor Jim at the front of his church.

Standing there tall, dark, dressed in black, low voice shaping words redolent with the harmonics of authority and mercy. The scent of that dark red wood polish, candle wax and communion wine layered over everything, while the glow of sunlight slanting through the stained-glass windows turned the moment into something verging on holy.

" _ **Merciful God,  
we have sinned in what we have thought and said,  
in the wrong we have done and in the good we have not done.  
We have sinned in ignorance:  
we have sinned in weakness:  
we have sinned through our own deliberate fault.  
We are truly sorry."**_

Sam huffed a breath of self-mocking and ran a hand nervously through his hair. When was the last time he thought of Jim Murphy and his faith?

He supposed it made sense. Michele's faith and Jim's faith were in the same god. He _knew_ the comments he'd made about god were the thing that had pissed Michele off most, pushed her over the edge.

At one point, no, he admitted maybe at a few points in his life ... he'd even shared that sort of faith, in his own flawed way.

The first time Sam had tasted faith like that must have been in the months after the shtriga attack. When John had dumped them with pastor Jim.

He didn't remember the shtriga attack, but he did remember the months of living with pastor Jim afterwards as an almost magical time.  
Old ladies with baked goods, a room with two beds that were clean and warm and didn't smell funny, toys to play with and books, piles of books meant for kids.  
Sunday school with other kids that just accepted them both and had wanted to be their friends because they were staying with _Pastor Jim_.  
Music that made his soul soar, instead of the loud pounding stuff Dad and Dean preferred.

And then there had been Dean.

Dean who seemed to have magically transformed from a grumpy put upon big brother, that often seemed to barely tolerate Sam. To somebody that treated him like he was the most precious thing in the world. Prone to sudden hugs and gestures of affection, who suddenly really wanted to spend time with him, to do and be everything for his overjoyed little brother.  
A Dean who'd suddenly become determined to be the best brother _ever_ in the history of the universe.

Surely pastor Jim's God had performed a miracle all for Sam.

He'd put it together in the years since, with the story Dean told him when they'd killed the shtriga.  
That miracle hadn't been a miracle; the only god who'd been involved was Dean's own personal vengeful god, John Winchester.  
The one who, instead of taking responsibility for how Sam had so nearly become a victim of the Thing John had dragged them across the country to hunt, had twisted and reinforced Deans childish guilt with silence. Never explaining or apologizing, nor helping Dean deal and understand it hadn't been his fault.

Sam wondered now whether John had meant for it to work out that way.  
That incident had become a self-inflicted choker chain of responsibility and a reason for self-flagellation that stopped Dean from fighting John's authority, kept John Winchester's own personal mini soldier and guard dog in line.

 _('Dad just ... grabbed us and booked. Dropped us off at Pastor Jim's about three hours away, but by the time he got back to Fort Douglas the shtriga had disappeared, it was just gone. It never surfaced until now. You know, Dad never spoke about it again, I didn't ask. But he...ah...he looked at me different, you know? Which was worse. Not that I blame him. He gave me an order and I didn't listen, I almost got you killed.')_

Deans words were as clear in Sam's memory today, as on the day of his confession 12 years ago.

Those months, dumped off by Dad in Blue Earth Minnesota, had been a slice of heaven for Sam.

Dean however, had probably seen them as a form of punishment for his failure and proof Dad didn't trust him.

Two people's views on events could be a world apart, Sam thought, looking at the Skype app and chewing absently on his bottom lip.

What he viewed as trying to protect Michele from their world - not telling her things that would probably upset her, but would go nowhere towards enlightening her any; she seemed to have seen as withholding information, both because he didn't give a damn and because he was using her as a tool or a pet.

And maybe he had been, because it was true; he hadn't done anything _real_ to help her, even though her life had been rocked by exactly the sort of stuff that was supposed to be his area of expertise.

Ever since the moment he'd stopped seeing her as a civilian and instead started seeing her as someone who could help them, he'd stopped thinking about helping or saving her.

He had fallen selfishly into expecting her to just deal with everything and suck it up (even when it came to experiencing what she had by proxy, with the siren.) Expecting her to just be there when he wanted, like some sort of neglected puppy waiting by the front door for its owner, eager and grateful for the bastard's return.

He spent his life saving strangers, but what had he done for her? (Her visions had saved their skin a good few times, didn't she deserve more than a random stranger?) Yet his efforts hadn't gone past cracking open a few books on prophets and asking their angelic friend a few vague questions (and then he'd not bothered to give _her_ any of those answers.) It was no wonder she had finally lost it.

Sam clenched his jaw, acknowledging his attitude was close to what he hated most about the way Dad had treated people.

There was a reason John Winchester left a trail of burned bridges and trashed friendships behind him.

He could even acknowledge that perhaps the reason why Pastor Jim Murphy was the only one who _never,_ in all those years, turned his back on John and his sons was probably the same one Michele had.

Faith and service of God.

 _(Until **that** got him killed by a demon, throat slit as a message to Winchesters.) _ Sam drew a breath and huffed it out.

Sam had WANTED to believe in the kind of god Michele was so convinced existed, one who had a plan. Who cared.

But the last time he'd allowed himself to believe in a god like that, one who reached out and helped, one who gave a damn. It turned out he'd been played and manipulated by Lucifer.

So, when Michele held out her faith in her hands to him, like a child with a precious spun glass Christmas ornament. All he could think was how it looked so pretty, but faith like that, it was sharp and drew blood when it shattered.

The only good thing about Jim's death was that it happened before they met any angels... and discovered what utter dicks most of them were.

Even more so, before they met Chuck as god.

Chuck had been the worst kind of let down, not a loving all encompassing, all knowing god, but one who needed him and Dean to _save him._

A creator with a pile of excuses, but no answers.

Everything Lucifer had done, yet watching Chuck justify himself in the face of Lucifer's hurt, had done things to Sam that he couldn't explain to himself.

The last remaining wisps of Sam's flagging faith seemed to have spluttered out and crumbled to ash, he told himself he didn't miss it, didn't think Chuck deserved it. But found himself struggling, every time his conversation with Michele touched it, with the fact maybe he did miss it.  
Would it make him feel better or worse, if he managed to dent the bright shiny thing Michele carried?

Sam huffed another breath of self-derision.  
He was digging at wounds unhealed, as a distraction.  
He needed to stop thinking about Chuck.  
 **HE** needed to apologize to Michele.  
He had put it off too long already.  
He could distract himself all he wanted saying Chuck didn't deserve her faith.

But he was pretty sure he didn't deserve her friendship either.

It seemed he had _that much_ common ground with his creator.

…

A teenaged girl with mocha skin, narrowed dark brown eyes and a lip glossed pout, answered Sam's Skype call, totally throwing him off.

One of Michele's daughters?

"Uh… Hello, is… your… Uh mother … there?" Sam found himself stammering uncertainly.

"Yeah, she's in the kitchen, hang on." The daughter answered disinterestedly, then the view lurched. Sam realised the teen must have picked up his call with a cell phone and be taking it to her mother.

The sound of music got closer and Sam heard a snigger of amusement.

The view steadied with a bump.

Sam found himself looking at a kitchen and Michele, she was cooking… and singing … and sort of bopping round the kitchen to the music.

"Mum you're _**so** **weird**_." the teen commented.

"But you love me, because…. I never do _this_ in front of your friends." The mother replied laughingly and picked up a spatula and started singing into it like it was a microphone.

" _When I heard that sound_ _  
_ _When the walls came down_ _  
_ _I was thinking about you_ _  
_ _About you_ _  
_ _When my skin grows old_ _  
_ _When my breath runs cold_ _  
_ _I'll be thinking about you_ _  
_ _About you"_

Michele sang theatrically into the spatula

" _When I run out of air to breathe  
It's your ghost I see.  
I'll be thinking about you, about you_

 _It was almost love, it was almost…"_

"You don't do it in front of _**my**_ friends, sure." The girl's voice broke in with a snigger and the view wheeled again like the girl had waved the phone.

"By the way…Phone." Then there was a bump and the view settled on the kitchen ceiling

Sam heard retreating footsteps and Michele stopped singing and started talking.

"Hello, my love, miracles really do happen if you're on your way home already. Where 'bouts are you? And what time should I put the jug on for coffee? I'm using the music thingee you set up, aren't you _proud_ of me?  
I've really missed you, you know that? Next time they ask if they can have you for this long I shall say 'No!' You are Mine... mine, mine, mine. _My husband_ and I want you _home_ in bed with me _every night_ , where you **belong**!... " Michele babbled on happily, then picked up the phone.  
Sam got a brief view of Michele's face before she squeaked in horror and dropped the phone again.

"Cabbages!" His friend muttered, then louder _**"Victoria?! Why didn't you tell me it wasn't Dad!?"**_

Laughter came from the other room as Michele picked up the cell phone from where she'd dropped it, with a small whimper like she was in pain.

"And _that_ is why beating your children should _never_ have been outlawed" she muttered darkly.

"So…" Michele began uncomfortably and closed her eyes tightly in a momentary grimace of embarrassment, then plastered on a very fake uncomfortable smile.

"Hell-oh Sam… and how are y-ou… I guess you _realise_ you weren't who I was expecting… _Please_ tell me Dean's not sitting somewhere I can't see him laughing his butt off at me…"

"Uh… no… Deans ... getting the dents out of the car…"

Michele's face changed, became intent, he could feel her studying him, trying to work out if he was hurt. Sam held up a quelling hand.

"No, no it's just the car Michele, Hellhound… long story."

"He hit a Hell-hound... with the car…?"

"No, he was in the woods with Crowley, I was driving… well not driving… so… yeah, I'm never gonna hear the end of it… Hellhound jumped on the car, trying to get to Gwen… umm she _didn't_ sell her soul… but she did… uh… hit it with an axe…?"

Michele's eyes slewed sideways. "That's… an interesting… plot line…" she said. Then there was the feeling of motion again and the sound of a door shutting. Belatedly Sam remembered she wasn't alone.

"Shit! Michele, I didn't mean…"

"Nah it's no biggie, little Miss Helpful knows I write FanFiction about 'that weird book series filled with weird monsters,' that I talk with a bunch of weird people, who also read and write about those weird books. Because I, her Mum, am _like_ _totally_ _weird_ … as long as she gets internet and food on a regular basis, my weird hobbies and friends don't feature." Michele informed him with a l rueful shrug.

Then she looked slightly forlorn and lifted her chin.

"Hey Sam?… I'm umm sorry about losing my temper the other day."

Sam ducked his head in response, ran a hand through his hair nervously. Off balance in the face of _her_ unexpected apology.  
The whole situation had torn up the script of how this was supposed to go.

"I Uh … that wasn't your fault… _I'm, I'm sorry_ … For, for a lot of things Michele. You're a good person… you don't deserve _any_ of _**this**_ … or being... stuck with us… really.  
I - I know I've taken your help for granted. I – I need you to know I don't think you're dumb or a tool or m - my pet."

"Sam…"

"We... _ **I**_ … we appreciate everything, though we _**I**_ don't deserve it… and …I'm sorry."

"Sam, seriously. Please stop!" Michele shot him a sheepish smile "I've been writing lots… so...I get it… can we move on?"

"I told Dean about working with the Men of Letters." He added hopefully.

"I'm glad, Sam." Michele smiled like he'd given her a gift.

"You were right, it wasn't awful, he said its Okay, and we're good… so uhmmm will there be some unspeakable YouTube thing?""

"YouTube?" Michele looked utterly confused.

"Like Dean… after he…you know... He said never to make you mad… because you had YouTube… and you weren't afraid to use it…?" Michele looked utterly confused and bemused "He said he'd never speak of it..."

Then, Michele blinked and started laughing. "Sam, the the YouTube thing was called 'Thank you.' It consisted of uhh …. Supernatural book quotes from people you've helped, saying ummm " _thank you_ ," with a sketch of something that represented the person. It was, well **I** _thought_ it was… _nice_ …."


	63. Chapter 63 Makin friends n influencing

**Chapter 63**

Dean wiped his hands on a greasy rag and pulled his phone out of his pocket to survey the message.

"I saw this and thought of you," two photos were attached.

The first photo was of a birthday card, with the words

"Don't worry about another birthday, you aren't old until you start leaving yourself little notes..."

The picture on the front was of a cartoon dog standing in a room plastered with yellow sticky notes.

The second photo was of the card's inside which said

"... and then wonder who they're from. Remember to have a great day."

"Sonofa..." Dean rubbed the back of his neck, uncertain if his brothers pet hobbit was mocking him, trying to be funny, or had meant it as some sort of 2 month delayed birthday greeting. Just weird that she had thought about him while trolling the birthday card isle.

Still, he's awesome and while Winchesters don't do birthday cards or cartoon dogs... or random "saw this and thought of you" messages, he found a rueful smile tugging up one side of his mouth.

"Bet ya think you're smart n funny,." he grumbled while typing the same words in a reply.

He turned his attention back to the impala's liquid obsidian and bright chrome lines, feeling a deep satisfaction at having put things right. New glass glinted pristine, the scratches and dents that had marred her body work now corrected by dedicated exertion and skill.  
He might not be able to do everything right, but this, this he could do.

His eyes lingered lovingly over the subtle flexion of the impala's body, long smooth lines, curving over her wheelbase. Solid steel, chrome and glass. Not a sign of Hellhound damage, once again a thing of beauty.

His phone buzzed again with another message.

"I have been called both before, Dean... admittedly it was a sort of 50/50 split of meanings between 'intelligent and humorous' and 'your mouths going to get you into deep trouble soon, are you soft in the head?'"

Dean hummed a small sound of amusement.

Sammy's little friend _was_ sort of amusing.

He's labelled the woman many things, teased Sam about her often enough, but he guesses that's what it boils down to.

Sam's made a friend.

She accepts Dean, is warm and friendly towards him, in an all-inclusive, part of the furniture sort of way. (And Dean's grateful for that, considering he's done some screwed up things, its more than he deserves.)

But there's no denying who's the main event in Mitch's book, Dean's just the add on. A weird reversal of how most people interact with the two of them. It's an unfamiliar place for Dean to find himself in.

Sam always was a lonely kid, Dean reflects; that's why he ended up attracting a fricking Zanna.  
Dean felt his lips curl further at a thought, Mitch is like a weird, instant messenger and email version of Sully, more electronic and less magical sure (except for the future vision thing) but she's got the same vibe. He'll have to remember to toss that one out there next time he's got an opportunity, he doubts Sam will thank him much for the observation, but Sam's bitchface will be epic.

As a kid Sam struggled making friends in ways Dean never did.  
Maybe it was because he was small, shy and sort of nerdy. He'd never been one to push himself forward and has a tendency to over think things.  
Moving every 5 minutes didn't help, always being the new kid. Living out of a car, endless no-tell motel rooms and run-down dives didn't help, nor did Dad's obsession with the hunt. Knowing what was out there in the dark made John Winchester (and Dean by extension) suspicious and paranoid of strangers - and everyone but family was a stranger.

Their life growing up had been heavy on survivalist skills like PT and weapons training, focused on building the perfect soldier; and light on 'here's some milk and cookies and when are you going to invite a nice friend home from school son?'

Maybe having Dean for a big brother didn't make things easier for Sam.

In his more introspective moments Dean can admit he's too over-protective of his now grown, (over grown) brother. Maybe he's always been a bit possessive. People have called their relationship co-dependent and countless other things with varying levels of venom and insinuation.  
Dean may lie professionally, but he can admit to himself that, sometimes he's screwed up and over the top, everything about their life has complicated the whole making friends' thing for someone like Sam, including Dean.

He just ... didn't like those lame ass dweebs from when they were kids, who only wanted Sam to help them get their marks up, or those transparent horse faced chicks who only came around to make cow eyes at Sam's hotter, older brother.  
Sam was worth more than those people, people who were just using him for something.

Or worse, the ones like his silver spoon Stanford pals, that only saw and wanted a plastic, fake version of Sam. People who would look down their nose at Sam's dumb, drifter, older brother. People who'd frown snobbishly and ask Sam if he'd been swapped at birth, probably tell him he shouldn't associate with the white trash that raised him.

Because Sam was made of better material than Dean, and Dean would just drag him down.

Admittedly the Stanford douche bag, Brady, who threw that in Deans face (and got his College boy face smashed in for it, triggering major fallout with Sammy and 2 years of silence) turned out to be a demon condom.

Demons didn't always lie, not when the truth could cut. Here Sam was all these years later a college dropout, living the shady life of a hunter, with a trail of dead lovers and friends behind him.

Dean shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably under the bright lights of the Men of Letters garage.

He wanted Sam to have more than that.

Dean's phone vibrated again

"How's your Baby? Is the dent removal going okay?... Sam looks so guilty every time he mentions it. I know you love that car more than anything... but you love Sam more, right?... Pretty, pretty please could you ... sort of remind him a little teensy tiny bit, I'm not asking you to _say it_ or anything... just, you know ... do whatever replaces talking about the squishy stuff for you Winchesters..."

Dean snorted.

Possibly Sam _had_ worked out a way to have more _(because Sam's smart.)_  
Somehow in the midst of resurrected mother drama, shoving the Devil back in his box, West Guantanamo fallout and Nephilim crisis, Sammy had found himself a friend, Dean could find his way to being quietly glad of it.

Of course, it didn't mean he had admit that or forgo the simple pleasure of yanking her chain a bit.

"Could get him drunk and take him to a strip joint I guess." He replied and grinned to himself, imagining her face at _that._

It was the simple pleasures.

The sound of work boots on concrete, Sam's long stride.

"Hey" Sam greeted easily and handed him a beer "Wow, you're done…" Sam favoured him with a lopsided smile.

"Your hobbit seems to think little Sammy feels guilty for banging up his big brother's favourite toy."

Sam flushed a bit and studied his shoes, cleared his throat uncomfortable "You two have been talking about me?" he asked uncertainly, not denying anything, Dean noted.

"She's bein' a smart ass." Handed Sam his phone, with the photos of the birthday card, Sam grinned and huffed an aborted half laugh, swiped his hair back.

"Your friend is _warped_ , Sam. "Dean admonished.

"You just can't tell when people are being nice Dean." Sam suddenly looked uncomfortable "Uh… so... speaking of Hobbits Dean…. We got a message from Mick asking us to come in to HQ."

"What? Why?"

"Dunno… But come on Dean, the cars finished. Don't you want to give it a run, make sure that it's working? … And… Maybe we can catch up with Mom?" Sam was all beseeching puppy eyes _(please Dean, you said you'd try.)_

Dean took a mouthful of the beer Sam had brought him, and eyed the conversation thread with Sam's friend (disappointingly she hadn't replied to the strip joint comment.)

He snapped a photo of the impala and sent it off with the words "Dents fixed, don't think Sam can feel _that_ guilty Mitch, instead of a strip joint he's making me take him to report for duty at Limey HQ. We have been summoned."

"Oh no Dean!… they probably want you to fill in a pile of paperwork, collect your uniform and take part in a team building exercise. Run away!"

"What?!"

"Joking, no visions. But hey be careful…"

Dean sighed, took another swig of beer, looked across at his brother, still hovering there giving him puppy eyes.

"Fine… but if they want us to do any team building exercises I'm outta there."

…..

Sam wandered round his hotel suite, feeling off kilter, the room was too clean, too large and just too empty.

Last he'd heard from Dean, was an overjoyed phone call some 20 minutes ago after Dean discovered that the bathrooms contained a full-sized spa bath, _with jets_.  
He'd hung up in the middle of Dean expounding the virtues of some chick and her spa bath who could… (that was the point where Sam had hung up.)  
Dean would be very happy, alone, with his spa bath for the rest of the night.

Sam set up his laptop, logged onto the free wifi, scrolled through his mail. After a moment's hesitation, he sent Michele a skype call, but she didn't pick up.

Finally, he picked up one of Micks lore books, immersing himself in werewolf lore.

Hours later he was dragged to the surface by a returned Skype call.

"So, did Dean survive his play date, without beating up any of the toppy nosed kids?" Michele asked grinning.

"Uh… I don't…" Sam rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, he was having trouble changing gear, mind swimming with the information he'd been reading.

"Let me re-phrase that. How did things go with Dean and the Men of Letters?"

"They're still going actually. We have a werewolf case and Mick insisted on doing a ride along."

"So, Dean killed him and is out right now, disposing of his body?"

"What? No! Dean's in his suite and Micks in his… and I'm here, in mine."

Michele rolled her eyes "I didn't actually…" her voice cut off with a startled yelp, her whole body tensed and then her head snapped back, like she'd been hit with a jolt of electricity, momentary golden light filled her pupils, radiated outwards into her green irises, before spluttering and dying.

"Shit! Michele can you hear me?" He called urgently, wondering if this was normal for one of her visions.

The seconds seemed to stretch, as he watched tributaries of blood make their way over her still lips, her chin. Sam swallowed his mouth suddenly dry, so much blood… shocking red.

Then Michele took a deep shuddering breath and sat up. Found a handful of Kleenex, held it to her face, and began talking.

"It was a g-girl, maybe 18? blonde wavy hair past her shoulders, wearing blue jeans, black boots, a a green jacket… she was walking down a path towards a soccer field listening to music on her headphones, there was someone following her, a man? I d-don't… He was wearing black and I couldn't see a face just … like a mask, a skull… He was watching her, he wanted her, had made up his mind and wasn't going to wait… She, she … stopped took off her headphones looked around, like she heard something… then he growled and lunged at her, f-fast …That's all…I didn't see anything else. None of that helps, does it? … It's like the last blonde I saw… just another missing person." The woman faded out miserably.

Her face was alarmingly pale, her green eyes huge, pupils blown wide like she was drugged. And Sam was certain the tear that welled and rolled down her cheek was tinged red like it was stained with blood.


	64. Chapter 64 Connecting the dots

**Chapter 64**

Sam ran his fingers restlessly down the front of his Fed overcoat as he gazed down at the dead girl on the hospital gurney. Yesterday Hayden Foster had been alive.

She'd only been moderately injured in the werewolf attack that had killed her brother. Today she was dead.

Yesterday the girl had been sleeping in a hospital bed with her mother by her bedside, refusing to let 'the FBI' wake her for questioning.

Now, Hayden would never wake again, leaving _another_ huge question, on the pile of unanswered questions of this case.

"Thanks for coming by so quickly. Ms. Foster gave us your number." The stout balding doctor welcomed, steeling his fingers across his middle looking unsettled.

"You have any idea what happened to her?" Dean prompted.

"Autopsy's tomorrow, but it could be an arterial embolism, cardiac arrest…"

"A heart attack at her age?" Sam challenged disbelief beetling his brow.

"It gets weirder. When we admitted her, she had defensive wounds to her arms. Now..." The doctor pulled back the blanket covering Hayden from the neck down, exposing her blemish free arms "… they're gone." He stated incredulously, The silence stretched.

The doctors cellphone rang, disrupting the awkward silence.

"Just, uh, give me a second." The doctor requested.

"Sure." Sam was relieved when the doctor left shut the door behind himself, leaving the four of them alone.

"Okay...what the hell?" Claire challenged looking to the three men for explanation.

"You checked Hayden out. Did you notice anything weird?" Dean asked waving a hand at Mick.

"No, but, uh, the girl could've had internal injuries or..." Mick faltered looking uncomfortable.

"But somehow, her external injuries all healed? No way." Sam disagreed "This is almost like, uh..." staring into space, he blinked as the most obvious explanation came to him. "You know, what if she turned?"

"What, like, 'wolfed out' turned?" Dean asked, gave his brother a look.

"Explains the whole Wolverine healing factor thing." Claire agreed, looking between the brothers with a small nod of agreement.

"Yeah, no, but that'd be crazy because that means she would've been bit." Dean drawled "And Mick here says that that didn't happen." Dean waved a hand towards the British man of Letters and favoured him with searching eye contact, eyebrows raised.

"Right, Mick?"

For a moment Mick looked back at the older Winchester, like a kid called on in class, who knows he doesn't have a good enough answer "Uh... Uh, no, not – not that I dsaw."he replied nervously.

"Are you 100%?"

"Unless I made a mistake." Mick back-pedalled.

"Hell of a mistake!" Dean flared with a head shake.

"Dean..." Sam warned.

"No, I told you we shouldn't have dragged him along. I told you!"

"Don't!" Claire barked sharply at them "Whatever got Hayden is still out there." She reminded.

"Okay...So let's say the night of the attack, wolf ices big bro, chomps down on a little sis, and then...poof, vanishes? Does that make any sense?" Dean directed, back to the facts.

"Maybe he let her go." The younger Winchester suggested.

"On purpose? Why?" Claire looking between the brothers for an answer.

"Perhaps he didn't want her dead. He wanted her turned." Mick proposed.

"Right. Which means this wasn't random."

"Which means it would've been somebody who knew her. Friends, family." Dean followed the chain of logic.

"Or someone from the bar" Claire added.

"Okay. All right, Sam, you and Claire, you go talk to the girl that she was _supposed_ to be crashing with, and me and amateur hour will hit the bar, see what shakes loose."

…

Sam watched Claire fish round in the disaster area of her cars back seat, grab her backpack and drag it into the front.

"So... really? Things are good?" He asked.

"They're awe-some." Claire answered tonelessly.

"Really?" Sam held up a handful of the fast food wrappers that littered the interior of Claire's car, letting them fall one by one "You sure?" He asked half teasing, half concerned.

"Dude, take the yes." She suggested, pulled out a pair of mint green headphones and slung them round her neck.

"Okay." She let out a breath "So, you wait here."

"What!?" He demanded frowning at her.

"Sam, no offense, but who do you think the kids are gonna wanna talk to? Me, or some old skeezer?"

"Y… ?!"

"Exactly." Claire pretended that the noise he'd made was agreement, rather than offence. "Be right back." She promised and left him sitting in the car.

Sam sighed watching the girl walk away towards the high school. Claire was right, the kids _would_ be more comfortable talking to one of their own, aparently he didn't even speak teenager anymore.

"Skeezer?" He asked thin air.

…..

"Michele can I ask you something?"

Sam typed the query into the Skype box and ran a restless hand through his hair.

It wasn't a necessary question and he knew he was only starting up a conversation with Michele because he was feeling edgy. He'd usually fill a gap like this by calling or texting his brother and shooting the shit.  
But Dean was with Mick, touching base with his brother this soon after parting, might seem… A little clingy? Unprofessional? Like Sam couldn't do the job without big brother holding his hand? It wasn't the impression he wanted to give.

"Of course hon. What's up?" Gratifyingly, Michele's response was almost immediate.

"What's a 'skeezer'? I thought maybe, since you have teenagers you might understand their language."

"Oh, because I'm in the unenviable position of being able to study two specimens of the species in their natural habitat you mean?" Sam could almost hear the amusement in her tone, even through the writing.

"Yes, sort of…. "

"It's not a word that my 'Lesser antipodean spotted teens' use… but, hmmm using my impressive word fu skills, gained from hours spent discussing colloquialisms and word origins with Cougar I'd say it's a blend of 'skeevy' meaning creepy or gross, and 'geezer' meaning old man….If they aimed it at you, I'd say your stateside teen was calling you a creepy old man, dear."

Yeah he figured.

"Oh, Sam… I just asked Mr Google the actual definition of 'skeezer'…. and my guesstimate …. -coughs- … is MUCH nicer than what Mr Google gave me. Where did you dig up such a blessedly polite young person?"

Sam huffed a breath of amusement, 'blessedly polite' was not a description he'd use for Claire.

"She's a friend, Claire. She was investigating the werewolf case too, we stumbled into her."

"Claire, as in Jimmy Novacks daughter? she's chasing werewolves?! Is Jody's or someone with her?" Sam was surprised at that, until he reminded himself Michele had read Chuck's books.

"No, it's just Claire. Jody's busy with work, apparently Claire was supposed to call if she found anything, she ran into us first though."

"Anything? like a possible werewolf? Umm Sam, I may be a helicopter Mother, and I don't know Claire or Jody…. or hunting … Maybe you Americans are just different from us kiwis...But do you _really_ think Sherif Mills would happily allow a lone girl to go off to investigate a potential werewolf case… by herself?"

The answer to that question seemed obvious when Michele put it like that.

"Maybe I should call Jody."

"Maybe."

…

Sam was sitting on the hood of the car, staring at the School and considering things, when Claire finally returned. He watched her walk towards him smiling.

"I was kidding before, but you really do look like a creeper." She teased.

"Funny." He congratulated "How'd it go?"

"BFF found. Beans spilled." Claire enthused, then ran straight into a rapid fire explaination, heavy on the teen jargon "Hayden was hooking up with this older guy on the DL, and she was really into him, but he was a total stalker. Texting constantly, ultra possessive. Skeeved her friend out so much she narc'd to Hayden's brother."

"Guess that explains why he was there." He considered out loud.

Claire smiled at him as she made her way to the car, tossed her backpack in the back seat "I did good. Right?"

Sam took a breath, stood "Claire…." He began, she turned. "Why does Jody think you're in Madison looking at colleges?" He asked.

"You called her?" She asked, alarmed.

He gave her an apologetic half smile and a small nod.

There was a long pause as the girl looked away.

"Did you tell?" She asked finally bouncing on her toes slightly, looking very young in her discomfort.

"No. Not yet. But why are you lying to her?"

Claire closed the car door shoving her hands in her pockets. "Look, I-I know, okay? I know how much I owe Jody. But we tried the whole hunting thing, and I just ended up sitting in the car while she does everything."

"Guess she's taking it slow."

"She wants me to be normal, go to nursing school like Alex." Claire pronounced contemptuously.

"Did she actually say that?"

Sam remembered times, both when he was young and wanted desperately to hunt, and after a while, when he would have given anything to escape. Suddenly he felt old.

"She doesn't have to."

Of course Claire was right… Jody didn't want this life for Claire. Sam could admit to himself, _he_ didn't want this life for Claire, either really. Youth and enthusiasm painted it heroic but the reality was gritty and dark and usually ended far to soon, in blood.

"I'm better off on my own. This way, everybody's happy." She continued.

THAT was so untrue.

And it was weird, somehow he found himself using a modified version of Michele's script about telling the truth.

"Claire, Jody's not gonna be happy, when she finds out. And if something happened to you..."

"I'm careful!" She argued.

"You need to tell her the truth." He pushed.

Claires face went hard, she stalked towards him "You know what? Screw you. I'm so sick of you guys, dive-bombing my life, pretending like you care."

"We do care!"

"Then stop treating me like a stupid kid!" She all but yelled in his face.

"Then stop acting like one." He flared. Claire's eyes widened and her mouth thinned before she turned on her heel and stalked off.

Sam winced and wiped a hand over his face.

"Claire…" he called after her, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.

She just kept walking, headphones blaring music to block out his voice.

…

"Well it's a good thing I don't have kids." Sam's comment, via Skype, pulled Michele's attention from the basket load of laundry she was folding.

"What happened?" She typed, leaving off on her hunt for the match to the lone sock in her hand.

"You were right, Jody wasn't aware of what Claire's doing."

"You didn't dob her in to Jody, did you?"

"No, but I did confront her about it, tell her she shouldn't be lying to Jody about hunting."

"And she got pissy, stormed off to her room and slammed the door? -Pats Sam's shoulder comfortingly- Sounds like you did just fine hon', Seriously, dealing with teenagers tends to be lots of being hated for calling them on their less than stellar decision making."

"There's no room to storm off too or door to slam here, outside the high school. But she did a great job of storming off with those mint green headphones jammed over her ears, music blaring."

Michele felt her guts twist, mint green headphones? The details of her latest vision slammed forcefully back to forefront of her brain.

The girl, Blonde hair, blue jeans, army green jacket, a hand rising to remove her mint green headphones as she looked around, suspiciously.

"Claires blonde isn't she? Those headphones, I may have seen them.

She could be the girl from my vision.

Find her Sam. Don't let her go off alone, please!" Michele typed rapid fire, urgent, hoping she was wrong.

There was no reply.

"Sam?!" She typed, still no answer.

Sam was gone.

All she could do now was hope, hope that Sam had gotten her message. Hope that Claire Novak wasn't the girl from her vision. Or if she was, that Sam found her before something dressed in black did.

The girl in her vision, she only looked a handful of years older than her own girls.

Michele tugged frustrated fingers through her hair and stared at the basket of clean clothes waiting to be folded. Eyes unseeing, her thoughts half a world away.

This was the worst bit… the not knowing. Waiting and wondering. When the only thing left was hope and prayer.

"God, I can't believe I saw that girl for no reason… Sammy, he says that you left, that you don't care _or_ have a plan. _But I know you_ … so I'm asking." She faltered in her prayer, uncertain exactly what ask. Wrapped her fingers round the silver cross hanging around her neck and took a breath. " _Please_ God …. Don't let that girl, who ever she is die…. _please?"_

…..

As Sam sprinted in the direction Claire had stormed off, he couldn't believe how stupid he'd been. Michele was right, she'd described Claire to him two days ago, down to what she was wearing today. Over his pounding heart he heard a scream, ran faster.

Fuck!

There it was, the playing field, and Claire… lying on the ground.

At his approach she scrabbled for her knife, not recognising him, thinking to defend herself from an attack.

"Claire. Claire." He called "Hey. Hey. Claire. Hey, it's me. It's me."

Recognising his voice, the fight went out of her with a whimper. He crouched down, wrapping his arms around her, sitting her up and pulling her close in one motion. Searched for signs of threat over her shoulder. But saw nothing.

"It's me. I gotcha. I gotcha. I gotcha. You're safe." He soothed, stroking her hair, as she clung to him whimpering.

Then, he looked down, saw the blood on her shoulder, the tear in her jacket. The bite mark in her flesh.

Cold fingers of dread wrapped his heart and hot fingers of rage clawed his thoughts.

Closing his eyes, feeling sick, he sucked in a deep breath, fought to keep it together.

For Claire.

It was about all he could do, too little, to late.

If only he'd listened and understood … If only he hadn't pushed so hard… or not let her storm off… if only, if only…


	65. Chapter 65 Anxious

**Chapter 65**

The directionless anger seething through his blood was reminiscent of how he'd felt with the mark jacking him up.

The confrontation with Mick _(accused of paling around with witches and demons, that shit stung! Mick's a paper pusher doesn't understand, doesn't get how it is in the REAL world, just blindly follows some sort of code.)  
_ Knowing and telling Sam how Hayden had really died; Hearing about Claire getting bitten, not connecting the dots in time. It left him hungering for violence.

Dean finished cleaning and covering the bite wound on Claire's shoulder, tossing glares in the direction of the British sonofabitch, felt Claire trembling underneath his ministrations and the waves of heat rolling off her.  
He wasn't going to get played again, Mick had drunk the company cool-aid, the policy of 'the only good werewolf is a dead werewolf' would get revisited only over a dead body.  
Mick Davies dead body.  
If he thought, he was getting near Claire with a syringe of fricking silver nitrate the creep could think again.

"We gotta cool her off. She's burning up." He muttered sliding fingers from her pulse, gripped Claire's too warm hand, squeezing lightly in an attempt on comfort.

"No. No, no, keep her warm." Mick picked up a blanket, stepped forward.

Sam turned angrily towards Mick "Back off." He snarled

"Shut up." Dean agreed, gesturing angrily at Mick.

"Look, I understand you're angry…"

"Mick, you killed a kid. We're not angry. We're _done_!" Sam flared, cut the air with a furious hand.

The brothers turned their backs on Mick, faced Claire, shoulder to shoulder, blocking Mick out.

"How long have I got until..." Claire hunched in on herself as she asked, arms crossed over her chest.

"Sometimes it takes a full moon. Sometimes it just takes time." Sam answered her as gently as he could, working his jaw against the frustration of the situation.

Dean could tell his brother was scrabbling for something to do, a way to fix this, make it ok. Sam was carrying a load of guilt over not telling his hobbit about Claire sooner, not joining the dots in time.

Claire sniffled, her face crumpling.

Dean slid to his knees in front of the girl, rested a hand on her knee

"Hey. Hey, listen to me. Look, nobody said this was gonna be easy, okay? _But you can live with this."_

"No way."

Sam paced back to the table, sat and opened a book.

"Hey. Look, so you – you have to stay locked up a few nights out of the month, okay? The rest of the time, you're _you_." He looked up into Claire's blue eyes from where he knelt, trying to convince her.

" _Unless I break out."_ Dean felt himself flinch back from what he saw in the girl's eyes, she was too young to look like that "Maybe some people can control this, but I can barely keep it together on a good day." Claire admitted in a broken whisper "So if there's _any_ chance I could hurt Jody or Alex...or anyone... _**I'd rather die."**_ Her words were fierce, strong.  
Dean looked down under the force of them. God, she was too young to look like that, mean that, she'd barely lived, as far as he knew she hadn't even —…  
Dean felt sorta dirty just thinking about _that stuff_ in relation to Claire… the point was - she's barely lived.

"Claire, there may be another way. There's – there's the blood therapy, that you talk about." Sam broke in, waved at Mick then down at the book, open in front of him.

"I told you, _it doesn't work_."

"It says right here, uh… '1 out of 9 test subjects was _cured_.'" Sam read out, finger pointing at the page for emphasis.

" _ **Cured?"**_

"Yes!"

"That study was on _mice_."

Dean got to his feet, stalked towards Mick. "You want to tell me what the hell he's talking about?" He demanded.

"We experimented with the blood of sire werewolves. And we found it was possible to reverse the early stages of lycanthropy... _in rodents."_

"So, you never tested on humans?" Sam queried.

"Once."

" _And_?"

"The subject died, _in agony_." Mick grimaced and shot a look at Claire. Dean felt his hopes crash, saw the same on Sam's face.

"Sorry." Mick breathed.

"Yeah. Maybe second time's a charm." The girl argued, unperturbed.

Dean rounded on Claire "Hey, no, no. You don't get a vote in this."

"It's my life. _I get all the votes_."

Dean turned to his brother "Sam, you wanna back me up here!?"

Sam refused to look at him "It's her life." He muttered. In that moment, he knew Sam was thinking of the hell trials and Gadreel.

"I bet you think this is a great solution. Hmm? It works, or she dies. Either way, one less monster, right?!" Dean rounded on the British man.

"I don't think there's any great solutions here." Mick answered, there was a vulnerability in his eyes that gave the hunter pause.

"Dean... Please?" Claire begged "I can't…"

Dean found himself pacing, faltering _(All those words Sam had thrown in his face, because he couldn't let him go, make his own choices. He could never agree - but it didn't mean he wasn't right)_ ….

"All right. If we do this – _**if**_... how do we get it done?"

"We need blood, live blood, from the werewolf that bit her." The British man answered.

"Good. Great. Who we lookin' at?" Sam asked, sitting forward.

"Tribal tat. Back at the bar. We shook him down about Claire, and right after, she gets bit. That's not a coincidence."

"Timeline fits, connection to both victims."

"Then we should go. The full moon rises in less than an hour. And if she turns and feeds, our cheery success rate drops to zero." Mick urged.

"Let's go."

The Winchester brothers headed for the door, Mick followed. Dean stopped and turned toward Mick.

"Not you.

You stay with her."

"You _trust_ him?" Sam asked

"Mick's a smart guy.

So, when I say that if anything happens to her, and I mean anything..." He gritted out through clenched teeth.

"You'll kill me." The British man finished.

"Like I said. Smart." Dean nodded to himself.

…

They were working on the perennially hated spelling homework

"The last one is 'Anxious', do you need me to use it in the sentence?"

"Anxious: I know Mum is **anxious** because she keeps checking her phone while we are doing spelling" the boy demonstrated his word knowledge without looking up, the sentence hovered partway between a statement and a question. Michele bit her lip, looking down at her phone, put it on the table guiltily.

Yes, Mum was anxious, autistic kids weren't supposed to understand or read other's emotions very well… but the 8-year-old could read her better than anyone else on earth.

It had been 2 hours, since the conversation with Sam stopped so abruptly and her mind kept going places.

Werewolves, blonde girls, men/things in black.

The Supernatural books were real

 _(was that ever going to stop sucker punching her?)_

Red Meat.

That book detailed the last werewolf case the Winchester brothers had investigated.

If _that_ was an example of a werewolf case… surely there was reason to be anxious!?

Sam, her Sam, had been gut shot, suffocated, almost died. Dean _thought_ he **had** died, then _he'd_ overdosed in an attempt to bargain for his brothers return.

One-day Winchester luck would run out, today might be that day.

 _('God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.')_

Wasn't that a big dollop of irony? That she found herself praying a prayer associated with Alcoholics Anonymous over Winchesters?

Michele looked down with a small jolt, a note pad full of spelling words was shoved into her hands.

 _('Right, spelling words to mark.')_

Michele started checking, down the spelling list.

"Please don't let me have to write any out, please don't let me have to write any out, please…" Her son chanted making her smile, a prayer to the vengeful god of spelling homework. (In the insane world she now inhabited _maybe that was an actual thing_.)

Pointing at the third word from the bottom which was supposed to be 'Fierce.'

"Your writings awful, what are the last two letters supposed to be?"

"What are the last two letters supposed to be?" The boy repeated, the experts would call it an example of echolalia. But the green eyes that met hers then deflected away, held the sparkle of a kid hedging his bets.

 _('The god of spelling homework_ _ **also**_ _helps those who help themselves, apparently.')_

"They're _supposed_ to be a 'C' and an 'E'…" she informed her son with a rueful smile "and if they don't _obviously_ look like that tomorrow you can write it out, twice.  
Right you're done! Be free, be free."

With a yodel of joy, the boy scampered off to find his iPad.

From the table, her phone chimed.

…..

It hadn't gone down how they'd expected.

Tribal tat wasn't the wolf, turned out that it was the other bartender.

While they were off perusing tribal tat, wolf boy had decided to collect his playmate, knocked out Mick and taken off with Claire. If it hadn't been for Mick Davies putting a tracking device in Claire's pocket …

Thanks to Mick they'd found her, killed the wolf and administered the 'cure.'

Now, Dean found himself sitting on a kitchen chair, watching the girl he considered to be like family (a step niece twice removed or something) convulse and make inhuman noises of pain.

 _(_ _"The subject died, in agony.")_ Mick's words echo hollowly in his head.

A treatment tested on one human? _And_ the guy died!  
But he'd let a freaking _kid, who wasn't even old enough to drink,_ talk him into giving her it. A lethal injection dressed up as a possible cure.

God, what had he done!?

 _(_ _"The subject died, in agony.")_

One in nine chances for freaking rodents, but hey! Let's roll the dice.

They should have locked her up or shipped her off to Garth, found another way.

 _(_ _"The subject died, in agony.")_

How is he ever going to look Jody in the eyes again?

Son dead, husband dead, then they'd dumped two screwed up kids in her lap like a faulty consolation prize. Jody had taken them in. Loves them. Now he's sitting here watching one of them **dying in agony.** It's his fault.

This is worse than Claire dying on their watch.

Worse than putting a bullet in her fricking head.

She's suffering, dying slow and he's just sitting here, watching it fucking happen.

 _No one_ deserves this, he wouldn't let a _dog_ die like this.

Inside he's screaming, outside he wears his habitual game face, but can feel it cracking.

Live or die, if only he knew.

If he knew this 'cure' was definitely not going to save her, could he man up and take responsibility? Give her peace. Even if it killed him inside, he could do it for Claire. _This_ is killing him, sitting here watching it.

Besides he IS a killer…

If he knew for certain there was no hope…

 _If only he knew…_ then it hits him, he knows someone who sees the future.

"Gonna get some air." He tells Sam.

…..

"Mitch." Dean's voice is hoarse and has an edge to it, filling her chest with constricted panic.

"Dean, is…"

" _Sam's_ fine." Dean cuts her off.

 _('Am I really that predictable?')_

"It's Claire, she got bit. There's a cure but it's a long shot."

Michele heard herself make a small sound of distress "Shit Dean, I'm so sorry, I wish…" she stops herself "what do you need?" Because Dean Winchester isn't the kind of guy who comes to cry on your shoulder. Threatens to shoot you if he thinks you're a danger to _his_ people, attempts at phone sex for an emotional dodge, sure… But crying on your shoulder? … No.

"Needta know if you've seen anything, needta know if the cures fixin' her or just killing her slow…" his voice cracks over the last word, and she hears him draw a ragged breath.

Michele swallows, sympathetic tears burning her eyes "I'm sorry honey, the only vision I had was that first night. I wish I could tell you otherwise."

"Yeah… guess I knew that." He sounds flat, like he doesn't deserve or expect more.

"Dean"

"What?"

"Just… please… This isn't all on you okay? If there's life, there's hope, right? You have to hold on to that."

He makes a noncommittal sound, it's alone and disbelieving, makes her ache to hug him, stroke his hair and tell him he's not alone. He probably wouldn't accept something like that though.

Someone calls his name, it sounds like he's stuffed the phone in his pocket without hanging up.

A door opening and closing.

Footsteps.

The silence lags, and Michele wonders what's happening. The silence is thick and heavy.

 _('Please God!')_

Then a girl speaks "You guys look like crap."

 _(Claire?)_

A few gasping breaths close by, surprise or relief? Then strained laughter.

"Claire." The Winchester brother's voices chorus, (answers her question) the name sounds like a benediction.

"Told you, second time was the charm. You can't get rid of me that easy" The girl's voice chides, snark and teenaged attitude in bucket loads.

"Course not." Dean's gruff voice agrees, all cool self-assurance, like he never had any doubt.

Michele smiles to herself, takes a breath and hangs up the Skype call. Looks down at the notepad and the last word.

Anxious.

The girl's going to be okay, the bad guy's been dealt with, the Winchester boys are in one piece.

 _('Mum is no longer anxious.')_

Thank God! Today Winchester luck is holding.


	66. Chapter 66 The story of my life

**The story of my life**

 **Chapter 66**

Once they'd disposed of the werewolf, checked Claire over to make sure she was actually 100% cured and sent her on her way (hopefully, she'd come clean with Jody, but they'd got no assurances on that front.) They'd headed out and dropped Mick back to the Men of Letters shipping container HQ with a feeling of relief.

Mick might have access to some amazing, up-to-date lore books, his knowledge _had_ turned a disaster into a win, they'd given him a second chance because of it. But he was an unknown and neither brother could relax around or trust him.

No sooner had the men of letters compound's security fences left the rear-view mirror than Dean had decided that they had a few more hours driving and nothing better to do, so they may as well call Michele and fill her in on Claire's recovery.

The way he said it made Sam duck his head to cover his amusement, while Dean's tone said he was only suggesting it to avoid listening to yet another podcast; the way the corners of his brother's eyes crinkled up when he'd had agreed, _that_ had seemed _awfully_ eager.

Maybe not 'do you want some pie Dean?' eager, or the parts trader in Wisconsin found original mint parts for the impala, eager.  
Not even first cup of morning coffee after a long night, eager.

But, maybe second cup of coffee of the day, keen.

A far cry from the irritated, lesser of two evils, indifference he was trying to portray.

…..

"So, Mitch, how are you Hobbits gonna celebrate the first ever Purge."

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, somehow it had surfaced in Dean's head that they were only days away from March 21st 2017, the date of the 'first ever Purge' in the James Monaco flick. It was his fourth mention of it today.

The way Deans mind locked on to insignificant details like that never ceased to amuse and annoy, it was an equal measure thing.  
Dean's encyclopedic knowledge of weird ass horror movies was just one of those things.

"Ignore him, Dean's still struggling to separate fantasy and real life. Dean sorta _is_ a horror movie." Sam huffed.

Michele didn't answer, 'The Purge' didn't really strike him as Michele's kind of thing.  
But then, what did he know. It occurred to him, he'd never really asked her anything about stuff like that.

"Hey, coulda been reality! Lucifer jacked the president, we were _**damn**_ lucky he didn't have a hard on for dystopian horror movies." Dean argued "People slaughtering each other in the streets, pretty much his kinda thing."

What Lucifer could have done wearing the President was something Sam _really_ didn't want to ponder. _**Lucifer**_ was something he didn't want to ponder, so Sam fell back on the soothing holdfast of dispensing knowledge.

"They chose March 21st because it's the vernal equinox, day and night of equal length. It was supposed to symbolize the balance of good and evil in everyone…  
There's actually a bunch of lore surrounding the equinoxes, that balance. Light and dark, good and evil, death and resurrection… The numerology surrounding the number 21 in the bible is pretty interesting too, it's an allusion to both good and evil. Associated with sin and rebellion, but also is considered a representation of God and the Temple."

Dean cuffed his shoulder.

Michele had been quiet for a while, Sam got his brother's point, the woman probably didn't give a damn about equinoxes, or number theories linked to a date from a horror movie she's probably never watched.

"To answer your question Dean" Michele responded slowly as the silence stretched "I'm going to celebrate Purge day, by" she hesitated "Uh… turning 40. Figures someone would make a horror movie using the date."

Hu? It made her older than Dean, Sam realized. It was hard to think of the little New Zealander as older than Dean, sometimes he fell into the trap of thinking of his brother like he'd existed before time itself, and Michele… she was so… naïve and shiny.  
She might be a Mom of four, but parenting… Sam had been up close and personal with an example of how someone could parent and still be a kid.

"Forgot chicks have a spastic meltdown over every birthday ending with a zero, after 20" Dean contributed helpfully.

"No, not me, honestly. My English sister in law had a minor breakdown over hers, but…" she snorted softly "I'm not much of a girly girl.  
Tendency to leak blood, migraines and visions aside. I've got everything I could want.  
A pesty, in a good way, husband.  
Kids who actually like me, since two of them are teenaged daughters, _that's_ got to be a minor miracle right there!  
My life is pretty small, but it matters, you know. I'm needed and loved... so, I've got no need for a midlife crisis. I might die tomorrow, who knows, but if I do…I can trust, it will be enough."

Sam felt a tug of envy at her words, how many times had they saved the world? And yet he _still_ didn't have anything approaching that easy comfort in his own skin, that tranquility over his time on earth, that _something_ Michele had just relayed.

Maybe it was her belief in the bigger plan that gave her that?

Maybe it was because she'd never started an apocalypse …

Why did she sound so off about her birthday, then?

"….Its just… when someone you care about dies on your birthday… it sort of stains things, you know.  
One of my really close friends, Nic, died on my birthday a while back. Her daughter was only 6… so yeah."

Sam cut his gaze sideways to his brother.

"Yeah, I get that."

Dean cleared his throat, he didn't like the turn the conversation had taken "No way you're older than me Mitch, only explanation is that Hobbits gotta age like dogs or some shit."

"You do realise I'm not actually a hobbit, Dean. Just because Carver Edlund invented you, Tolkien didn't _actually_ invent me, sheish!"

"He _So_ didn't invent me, smart ass."

"Well yeah, if Carver Edlund is Chuck Shirley, and Chuck Shirley is God. He sooo did, _boy_."

"She got you there, Dean."

Dean's eyes widened, his lips shaped a soundless curse and Sam couldn't help laughing.

Dean gave him another shove.

"I hate those fricking books." Dean snarled, all venom and vinegar, but there was still a crinkle beside his eyes and the set of his shoulders was too relaxed for actual vehemence, Michele didn't know that though.

"I …I'm sorry Dean." She stammered in a little girl voice, sounding guilty as hell.

"Sorry for what?" Dean was totally clueless, but Sam knew where she was going.

"Michele, let it go." He warned, and it came out edged with threat. He doesn't want to do this now or ever.  
It's not like her telling Dean, about publishing what she is on that crappy FanFiction website will change anything for the better.  
If Dean hasn't filled in the blanks on his own, she doesn't need to spell it out.  
He's tempted to end the call, pretend they lost coverage, then have a strongly worded conversation with her about it, later in private.

Suddenly there's a sound reminiscent of the shrieking of the unquiet dead.  
Sam's experienced that sound before, it means the wifi for Michele's kids has run out, the 8-year-old is not amused.

Michele's going to disappear on them soon, off to her _real_ life, in _her_ world.

Gotta remember he's just a nasty blip on her radar, an aside from that life, and the people she really treasures.

Sam and his brother represent pain, suffering and everything she probably wishes she didn't know.  
It's what they are to most people they brush up against, the people with normal, apple pie lives.

Dean's frowning. Sam wouldn't want to bet whether it's because the kid's yelling bloody murder like that, the tone Sam took with her, or because he wants to know why Michele is sorry.

They're talking with no picture and she's probably got her hand over the phone's microphone, but Sam can tell she's going towards the source of the noise.

"You know the wifi is part of a world the intricacies if which, have never quite been within my grasp, darling.  
The limit was set and has now been exceeded. World without end, Amen!" Michele advises the unseen (but not unheard) child reasonably. Far too reasonably in Sam's opinion, he'd have gotten a kick in the ass from either Dad or Dean if he'd carried on like that.

"It is bed time. Pajamas on, iPad on charge, clothes by the wash. I will start reading in 5 minutes.  
New book tonight! Secret breakers: the power of three, it's supposed to be like the Da Vinci code for kids, but we shall see." The mother informs her spawn serenely as if it's not yelling like a banshee.  
Then, the wailing ceases as if she's cast a spell.

"Sorry, the joys of autism parenting." Her voice is rueful. Dean's eyebrows raise, and Sam bets his brother's now thinking about Rain man or something.

"Thought you said the kid was smart, can't he read his own book?" Dean grumbles.

"Of course, he can," Michele sounded offended "that's not the point."

"What's the point, then?"

 _('Fuck, and here it comes')_ the two of them are better, but put them together for too long and eventually fur starts flying (he's beginning to suspect Dean enjoys it.)

"For me, reading to someone is a way of showing I care. It makes Johnny feel safe and loved, it clears his mind and helps him sleep." Michele says the words softly.

It's not the response or tone Sam expected her to answer with, when he glances across, he's surprised to see his brother's color is high, there's that quirk to his lips that says he's sort of pleased and embarrassed.

Weird.

"Come with me."

 _('Come where? She's on the other side of the world.')_

"Tell you what, I'm not going to hang up, you can listen or not, it's up to you."

She means come listen to her kid's bedtime story? Sam looks at Dean again, this will be Deans cue to say, "Hell no sweetheart, we're not frickin' kids."

Dean is silent.

Sam watches his brother's too plush lips part, then compress, the tense way he swallows. A rough hand scrubs those lips roughly with knuckles, split and scarred from years of fighting. His other hand whitens on the steering wheel, but Dean doesn't say a word.

Dean keeps his eyes resolutely on the road ahead and doesn't say a word.

Does Dean expect him to hang up?

(Meanwhile Michele and her son are going through their nightly routine, the boy calls the cat and feeds it something called 'Slinky treats.' There's a drink and some sort of pills. Teeth get brushed, despite the kid's argument that there is fluoride in the water and there isn't anything stuck in his teeth.)

There's a rough voice in the back of Sam's head saying that 'men don't listen to bedtime stories; you're a man, act like one.'  
He wonders if Dean hears it too, and if it sounds like John Winchester, to him as well.

But the voice that Sam has always cared about most is silent.

There's a small greedy thing inside Sam right then, _that wants this_.  
Even if it isn't for him; he knows it belongs to an autistic kid on the other side of the world. But it's not the first time he and Dean have dined off of someone else's scraps.

…..

Michele reads for a long time.  
The story is about three kids, related to a group of code breakers that worked at a place called Bletchley Park Mansion during World War II.  
 _(The kids are cryptology legacies)  
_ They're being drawn into a scheme to translate a banned document, the Voynich manuscript, also known as ms 408.  
The manuscript is written in an unknown language, was found in a castle in Italy in 1912 and the best code breakers in the business have tried and failed deciphering it since then … the kids are supposed to be fresh eyes and a new way of thinking on the quest.

…..

They reach the bunker before Michele finishes reading.

Dean parks and they sit outside the bunkers wide reinforced metal and concrete doors in silence. Both staring straight ahead through the impala's windscreen listening to Michele read and the ticking of the impala's engine beginning to cool until ….

"That's it for tonight…."

The kid grizzles, begs "Please, please, please, _please,_ _ **please!**_ _"_

"No! No more chapters tonight. It's 8 o'clock, and 8 o'çlock is _bedtime_! No discussions will be entered into. World without end, Amen.  
Lie flat and prepare to be rolled."

Sam's not sure what that means exactly, but there's lots of giggling involved...

Then, demands for hugs and kisses.

A yelp and an admonishment that "kisses and licks are two different things, I'm not a lolly pop you brat.'

At that Dean raises his eye brows, looks at Sam for the first time, and leers.

Sam expects his brother to say something crude, but he just slides out and unlocks the entrance to the bunkers garage.


	67. Chapter 67 Blood, milk and whiskey

Chapter 67: Blood, milk and whiskey

 **Chapter 67**

Michele wakes with a splitting head and blood on her face. It's not even midnight yet and her whole body aches for the sleep the vision dragged her from.  
Loosening her two-year-old hands from her hair she slips out of bed, head tilted back, hand cupped under her chin to catch the gore splatter.  
Momentarily she looks back at her husband and her youngest son, their heads are resting together on the same pillow, faces both innocent and soft with sleep.  
The cat rises from her place at the foot of the bed, stretches languidly and follows her mistress from the bedroom into the lounge.

A handful of tissues to soak up spilt blood as she stands motionless in the dark breathing through the pain, waiting for the flow to stop, she considers the latest vision.

It wasn't much … Sam and Dean talking to Eileen the deaf hunter on FaceTime, about tracking Kelly Kline to a warehouse.

It _is_ good news.

But wasting a vision (and her blood) on the interaction seems … excessive.

Michele wipes at the blood on her face absentmindedly trying to puzzle it out.

Two things come to mind, the first is that Eileen is a _female hunter_ , she's not a psycho or something supernatural and she's survived in the hunting world all her life, which means she's got to be smart, good and careful.

Ever since the werewolf thing with Claire, the mother in Michele has been chewing over the Claire situation.  
The girl nearly got herself killed and the stupid Winchester boys just let her go strutting off alone, AGAIN, to find something else evil and chompy that wants to kill her.

Michele does not approve of survival of the fittest or natural selection when it comes to teenagers and she doesn't get why Sam and Dean don't take the girl under their wing and teach her, train her and keep her from the excesses of youth.

Okay, they don't want to be responsible for getting any more friends killed. They think Winchesters attract exponential danger, that being round them gets people killed. Michele isn't sure she totally disagrees.  
But doing nothing, leaving her out there alone, to figure it out by herself, seems daft and irresponsible.

There's got to be a better way.

There are a lot of things Winchesters think are the only way, but Michele disagrees. She's been searching for an alternative.

Standing in her darkened lounge room with blood drying on her face and a cat wrapping itself round her legs Michele's hopeful she's got an alternative to suggest.

If Claire is truly set on becoming a hunter, the Winchesters _could_ broker a hunter apprenticeship type situation for her, with someone that's smart and trustworthy.

Eileen would be a good fit, she's female which means Claire won't get taken advantage of, but Eileen must also know how to fight, take into account the limitations and dangers of being a woman, how to pick her battles...

Skills neither Winchester could teach, since they're both 6-foot men, lack the good sense God gave geese and have nine lives like cats.

Michele shakes her head, regretting the motion immediatly and considers the other thing the vision spot lighted. A maternal smile teases her lips unconsciously.

Eileen _likes_ Sam.

And _maybe_ he could like her too.

Eileen's a hunter and a survivor. Like Sam, she's a legacy, one who lost her parents, was raised a hunter. She has a chance of understanding him, being a part of his world.

It would be _so_ nice if her sweet, smart, self-sacrificing friend Sam Winchester realised Eileen liked him, it would be _even nicer_ if he let himself like her back.

Michele believes in happy ever afters.

…..

"An apprenticeship?" Dean asked somewhat incredulously staring at the woman on the laptop screen. She wasn't the type of woman he had been aiming to be looking at when he'd swiped Sam's laptop, but here he is.

"Yes, why not? Come on Dean.

I've been in your head, I know you care about Claire, …. you feel responsible for her, so _be_ responsible. If she insists on hunting find someone you trust to train her…Jody isn't a hunter she's a sheriff with a bit of extra knowledge, Claire needs more, it doesn't have to be Eileen, but…"

Dean held up a hand, "Hold up, you've been in my head? Explain!"

The New Zealander gave a put-upon sigh.

"Winchester gospels, Dean."  
She sounded exhausted "I don't get a choice. I see some stuff through your eyes, Sam's too … My viewing point it ... uh varies" she swallowed and looked away.  
"Dean, my heads killing me, it's the middle of the night and I feel like crap, can we just… not?" She gave him a beseeching look.

The hunter couldn't help noticing how bloodless and worn down she looked, perched there on the sofa in her pyjamas, with her hair a mess and smears of blood across her face.

"Yeah, okay." Dean reeled back his irritation a notch.  
"Mitch, that vision, how'd you get from there to, The Apprentice: Hunter edition, why do ya think _Eileen_ would agree to take Claire."

"Eileen likes Sam, like _likes_ likes him." She shot him an impish grin.  
"She'll do it if Sam asks. Eileen's deaf so Claire _would_ be an asset, fielding phone calls is only one example. Can't you see both of them would benefit … it wouldn't be a one-way street… and _both of them would be safer…_ besides maybe… if Sam and Eileen spent some quality time together, working out the details…" Michele tilted her chin and gave him a smirk that finished the sentence.

"You want Sam ta get laid?!" The hunter asked, honestly surprised.

"No! Well … yeah, maybe…. kind of. She's a nice girl… woman, not a monster, or a stalker. One that he wouldn't have to pretend with, because she's a hunter too, someone who can take care of herself.  
… I just, want Sam to be _happy,_ Dean.  
I want that for **both** of you…" she shrugs, looks at him like she's wondering if she's gone too far, but is defiant about it "I want you both to _LIVE_ , not just exist. I know you've both been through a lot, and maybe it's not my place to say this, maybe this isn't the time… but darn it! You and Sam _**deserve**_ some happiness…. Maybe …. Eileen…. could be part of that for Sam?" Earnest green eyes sucker-punch him, she looks all of 12 years old with her rumpled hair and bare feet, sitting there cuddling her pussy cat in the dark.

"This ain't a Hallmark movie." He grunts uncomfortably and rubs the back of his neck.

"Yeah I know" she sounds sad.  
Gives him a hopeful smile that'd give Sam a run for his money "Whether Sam ever reciprocates her feelings that's up to him, same with where it leads. But you _could_ refrain from being a jack ass and teasing him about her, it'd help. Sam doesn't like being told to do stuff does he? Consider for a moment that might extend to his love life."

"That why you're talkin' to me insteada Sam? 'bout your apprenticeship scheme for wayward kids. You _really_ just want me to lay off Sam, so he gets laid?"

She sighs "It's _about_ _Claire_ _not getting killed_. I'm talking to you because you're the head of the house… people listen to _you_." she pats her allergy factory and her mouth quirks sideways "that and Sam gets this sucking lemons look on his face when I talk about hunting stuff. He thinks I belong in an ivory tower or something." Tone frustrated, she smothers a yawn "The advice about butting out of Sam's love life is just food for thought. It's all food for thought, not like I can do anything but suggest, is it?" Another yawn, her eyelids droop, she's all but falling asleep on him.

"Yeah okay. Go ta bed Mitch, ya look like crap."

"Gee thanks Dean, luv you too." She mutters and logs off.

…..

Next morning Sam's up before his brother, Dean's probably catching up on sleep or simply laying round in bed listening to music.

Sam puts on coffee and helps himself to a bowl of cereal, opens the morgue style (Deans description) fridge to find the last few inches of milk have definitely turned during their absence. (Again he considers getting a carton of the long-life stuff for times like these, but Dean's got it in his head that 'that shits radioactive and tastes like ass. Better no milk, than ass milk that'll make your hair fall out Sammy.'

Dean is particular about milk, which is weird because he doesn't use it much, his gospel sates coffee should be black and not be covered in frothy shit, (yet he often takes a slug of Sam's cappuccino when he brings back coffee, Sam's pretty sure it can't _always_ be big brother jerkishness that prompts the theft.)

Dean likes the milk that comes in glass bottles, produced by a Kansas farm about two hours away, occasionally they've driven past the place and Dean's mentioned Daisy the cow or lusty lesbian milk maids.

Dean's head is a weird place that can hold both childhood whimsy and porn in close proximity without exploding. He may well believe that's how his milk comes about.

Either way, he whines about the stuff in the cardboard cartons or plastic jugs saying it doesn't taste right.  
Which is weird, 'right' is what you know, they grew up on no milk or the cheapest brand of milk, often on the edge of turning because dated stock was cheaper or where they stayed didn't have refrigeration past a bin or bucket filled from the ice machine down the hall (if there was an ice machine.)

Sam tips the spoiled milk down the drain, there's a small twinge when he does it _("can't waste food Sam, dunno when Dad'll be back.")_

He always liked Dean's spoilt milk pancakes, he hated the way they lived as kids, but Dean had the knack of manufacturing a silver lining like it was effortless, his trademark cocky grin seldom wavered (at least while Sam was in the room), it wasn't until Sam entered his teens (and Dad was dragging Dean on more of his hunts) that he understood that it wasn't effortless (despite the extra cash Dean slipped him.)

Sam eats his cereal dry wandering round the kitchen checking what supplies they could do with and begins making a list.

Takes his milkless coffee into the library, only to find his laptop is missing, which means he'll have to do a virus scan again, after Deans finished… uh whatever he's using it for.

Wanders back to his room, retrieves his duffle from where he tossed it the night before, carries it to the laundry room. The washer is half full of Dean's darks, open and waiting for Sam's.

He sorts through the bag, adds his own and starts the machine. One of them will swap loads later.

He decides to go for a run.

Springs here, he's glimpsed the world outside the impala's windows stretching and shaking off winter.  
Feels a bone deep need to breath it for himself, be part of it, instead of looking at it whilst driving from place to place. He's been wound too tight for far too long, needs to flex and breath. Thinking of how Deans hands clenched on the steering wheel, white knuckled, the previous evening, he suspects Dean does too.

….

On the way back from their supply run Sam gets a text from Eileen requesting a FaceTime call, the conversation goes just as Mitch described.  
And yeah, Dean can see that their own personal hobbit version of Oprah is right. Eileen's hot for Sammy.

He heroically restrains himself from making any comment except a short "Well that's cute" after Eileen hangs up.

Wonders if Mitch saw him trying to 'butt out of Sam's love life' as suggested.

Privately thinks that Mitch is dead wrong about Sam, he's not put off by a bit of brotherly ribbing, it's just ... Sam's loyal, He lets off steam occasionally like any dude, but Jess was it for him. Eileen's … not Jess.

Dean spends the rest of the drive home listening to Sam with one ear while wondering…

About Mitch's visions, how they work.

Why she's fixated on Sam.

Whether they ought to be more worried about the whole thing.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions (he'd know) while she means well, maybe Miss Helpful is screwing up the time space continuum.

Wonders uncomfortably who's eyes she saw the conversation with Eileen through, his, Sam's, Eileen's or if she was like a ghost in the back seat through it all.

Catches himself looking in the rear-view mirror a time or two, half expecting to see a ghostly shape.

Wonders if there are any protective sigils that could shut her out, thinks he'll look into it.

The thought of Sam's pet looking out of his eyes… frankly it makes his skin crawl.

….

"Just saying, Dean, even with Cas and every Hunter we know working this, we still got basically nothing. At least, you know, maybe Crowley..." Sam proceeded his brother down the bunkers stairs and dropped the bag he was carrying on the map table.

"No, dude," Dean dropped his own bag, gestured widely "we're not calling Crowley..."

A sound drew both brothers' attention.

To the man sitting in their library, looking for all the world like he belonged there.

Mick Davies.

"Hello, boys. Do come and have a drink." Mick greeted.

Dean brushed by Sam's shoulder, taking up his usual defensive position, half a step in front.

"Did you break into our house?" Sam questioned as he and his brother stepped towards the intruder as a unit.

"Our house. Men of Letters." Mick corrected "Did you know your key opens every chapter house in the world?" He continued easily.

The Winchesters strode towards him, slow measured steps, exuding a sense of menace that the British man seemed unaware of.

"Well, you did say you'd give me a second chance."

"Yeah, that doesn't mean we wanna hang out." Dean grated.

"You here for a reason?"

"I am, and it's a bit urgent." Mick put down the glass of whiskey he'd been sipping and leaned forward "Some time ago, the home office recorded some sort of cosmic shock wave. Very rare. And after a few months of..."

"Nephilim." Sam answered shortly.

"You knew?" It was Micks turn for surprise.

"Yeah, we knew." The elder Winchester confirmed.

"How?"

"Sort of a long story."

"Well, I've got time."

Dean picked up the bottle of whiskey and the two empty glasses from in front of Mick. Noted it was the good stuff with a quirk of his eyebrow.

"Well, Lucifer jacked the President...and then knocked up his girlfriend."

"And now, she's on the run with Dagon, who is a Prince of Hell." The brothers traded off the story, Dean poured two glasses of the whiskey.

"I see." Mick closed his eyes and looked pained "And you didn't tell me this because..."

"Cause it's kind of a need-to-know kind of thing." Dean answered handed his brother a glass and perched on the table next to him, facing Mick.

Mick rose from his seat agitated "The Devil is having a..." He clenched his fists and looked pained "…child. It seems like something we'd need to know." Mick paced across the library "Where is this woman now?"

"Not sure. We had her. Tried to help her, but, she, uh..." Sam faltered.

"We lost her." Dean supplied.

"…Yeah."

"I'm sorry. You... you had her? And you let her live?" Mick spluttered.

"Look, it's not Kelly's fault, okay? She didn't know Lucifer was her boyfriend." Dean argued, not looking at Mick.

"Oh, sure, yeah. It could happen to anyone."

"Plus, she'd agreed to end the pregnancy. And I guess she changed her mind. Even with everything Kelly knew, it... it was still her kid. She couldn't." Sam took a breath.

"Then you should have! You! Should've shot her between the eyes. Immediately."

"Oh, why? 'Cause that's what you would've done?" Dean snarled, second chances didn't mean they'd forgotten Hayden.

"Kind of like you killed that werewolf? 'Cause from what I remember, that really messed you up." Sam contributed in synch with his brother's thoughts and hoping it cut.

"Yeah, 'cause you're so big on second chances and all."

"Yeah... yes. I'm not saying it was gonna be easy.." Mick looked unhappy "But the Code demands it." Mick finished in a rush as if quoting scripture.

"Ohhh. The Code." Dean scoffed disgusted.

"This is not some werewolf. Do... Do you have any idea what will happen if this abomination is born?" The British man bristled.

"Mick... we're handling it, all right? We'll find her." Sam soothed, the panic in the Man of Letters eyes was doing nothing for his peace of mind.

"So, until then... I say we drink." Dean offered calmly.

Mick Davies starred at them both, as if they were insane, but he emptied his glass. There was an edge to it, like a deer caught in the headlights waiting for the impact.

Sam could almost pity the man.

The thing Mick Davies could never understand was, that this was just another day for Winchesters, after your first or second time averting the end of the world, you learnt to roll with it.

Whiskey helped.


	68. Chapter 68: What dreams may come

**Chapter 68: What dreams may come**

 **Chapter 68**

Sam walks into the kitchen.  
Dean's dressed and cooking something that smells good.  
Sam's walked in halfway through him telling an enthusiastic story about something or other.

"Morning sunshine." His brother calls brightly.

Michele's leaning against the island bench and shoots him one of her quiet smiles in greeting, doesn't say anything, doesn't need to, the smile fills him with soft warmth. Life is good.

A feeling of vague disquiet creeps into his mind, seeing Michele leaning there in the Bunkers Kitchen doesn't feel right, like she not supposed to be here.  
But he pushes the thought away, because that's stupid, Michele's always with them _('even when she's not,'_ the disquiet whispers softly, making no sense.)

"Soups up." Dean calls, distracting him from pursuing the thoughts, steps closer with plates of food.

Suddenly, the sight and smell of the food makes his stomach lurch, abruptly he thinks he might hurl.

"Dean I… I don't think I can…" He stammers.

His brother sighs, looks put upon and harassed, exchanges a look with Michele.

Michele smiles, touches Deans arm gently in as if in comfort, her smile looks sad and worried around the edges.

"It's okay Sam." She says softly "but you _do_ need something…" she picks up one of the men of letters coffee cups and a knife from the chopping board beside her.

 _And slits her wrist._

The blood flows, scarlet and vivid over her cupped palm, down her fingers and into the cup.  
Sam watches avidly, feels his mouth flood with saliva.

"You spoil him, you know that, don't you?" Dean snarks without heat.

Michele shrugs and lifts her chin slightly in defiance "It's my life and I'll spoil him if I want to. It's what he needs."

She answers his brother easily, walks closer and presses the mug between his palms, as if her life's blood is no more of note than a cup of coffee.

Two sets of green eyes watch him as he breaths deeply, savouring the scent and lifts the mug to his lips.

….

Sam jerks awake, heart hammering, head splitting with an almighty hangover, guts twisting with sickening nausea.

There are parts of his body that are confused by the abrupt end of the dream.

Parts that _**want**_ , as if he's been plunged back in time, to that tangled up mistaken thing between him and Ruby.  
One of his biggest mistakes. All his darkest hungers sated in one shameful, twisted, pride driven package.

Sam rubs his face blearily, buries his face in the pillow and breaths slowly until his body calms, while telling himself it's only morning rhythms and the hangover, confusing his subconscious.

That that part of his life is long gone and never happening again, it may feel nearly as bad as demon blood withdrawal, but it's not.  
Michele's not a demon. He doesn't want blood, or anything else like that from Michele.  
That would be wrong.

Michele's visions and blood go together, she can't seem to help trying to mother them, it's that simple.  
His subconscious is finding an outlet for his guilt over how they benefit from something that's draining the life out of her.

…

Mick Davies head was full of half heard thoughts and choppy static like a radio station at the edge of it's coverage zone. He was hung over, so maybe that's it.  
His thoughts revolved around the face of a boy, Timothy, a ?friend? from his childhood, but they circle restlessly towards and away from Sam and Dean Winchester also.  
As if the boy and the American hunters are linked somehow.

What Michele can comprehend of the Man of Letters emotions about that boy from his past are messed up and conflicting; grief and triumph, pride and shame, justification and regret, certainty and misgiving.

A flash of memory, Mick's hands, much smaller and younger than now, stained with blood. He'd done something, proved himself, some how.  
Had he been in a schoolboy fight with his friend? Maybe dobbed Timothy in for breaking the rules and received a bloody nose for his trouble? Michele can't tell, the weird choppy static in the man's head obscures everything.

Another image rose and flashed through Mick's mind, a severe woman.  
Dr Hess, headmistress, Mick's mind labels the face.  
Below roils another catalog of conflicting emotions.

Mick Davies is terrified of the woman, but also weirdly grateful to her. Desperation to prove himself, triumph, vindication, guilt and horror twinned together around that fear and gratitude.

The woman looms large in his thoughts like a deity, one who can bring bountiful harvest or calamity at a whim. Like a dark Aztec goddess, one you pray never singles you out or looks you in the eye.

Mick's dread of the headmistress reminds Michele of her son's interaction with _his_ school principal, the way her boy goes pale and shaken if he is forced to share air with the woman.  
It softens her attitude a smidge towards Mick Davies – Frodo, the other hobbit (Sam's codename for Mick still irks her in a way she probably oughtn't examine) …. _Maybe, possibly,_ Mick isn't like Toni Bevell.

Maybe… but, Michele _doesn't like_ the British men of letters, doesn't trust them, suspects there's something hinkey going on with the whole organisation. Something is off about their goals and how they work.

An organisation with as much funding and knowledge as they appear to have should have done _**more**_ with the potential werewolf cure by now.  
It seems they've just messed around with a small sampling of mice then thrown up their hands and written it off!  
The 1930's was a long time ago… Science has come a long way and Michele **can not believe** they couldn't have made progress if they'd tried. Michele knows how disease research works. What Sam told her of what little he knows, smacks of kitchen-sink back room hobby experimentation, not a powerful well-resourced organisation searching for a cure, where are the simian trials? Where's the mention of a vaccine (vaccinate a population and the disease becomes extinct due to lack of carriers, polio and small pox for example.)

One human subject (Michele suspects it may have been the back-room researcher or someone the researcher cared about) dying in agony whilst testing the cure, it _**is**_ awful and horrible … but, this is an organisation that trains their operatives in torture (Michele didn't miss that gem.)

This is not a commune of vegan tree huggers, it's an organisation that's okay with torture and _**killing**_ _**people.**_  
Squeamishness about animal testing, balking at a few dead monkeys for a higher cause?! Somehow Michele finds that hard to swallow or believe.

Makes her wonder if they actually want a cure...

The British men of letters have been _**killing**_ every person bitten or born a werewolf on their patch of earth for nearly 80 years while a potential cure was right there?! Claire's recovery proves that the plasma therapy could have been _saving people_.  
Maybe 1 in 10 living and cured is crappy odds but it's hell of a lot better odds than _**Killing all of them.**_

Mick's thoughts flick to Sam and Dean again and the staticky connection of the vision seems to clear, forcing Michele's full attention out of her head, back into Mick's.  
Mick dwells on the previous night drinking and talking with the Winchester brothers.  
Dean's expansive stories of their exploits, Sam's quieter more measured additions.  
The camaraderie and ease between the siblings, the way they talk about their mission to save lives and protect the innocent, it is rather admirable.  
They have carried out their life mission by trial and error, laboriously cobbling together gleaned information and experience, without the benefit of formal education such as Kendrick's, because of that there is a grass-roots simplicity to these men.

Their worldview is not the same as Mick's, they fly by the seat of their pants, no code, no orders, just their own best guess.  
They aren't however, the bumbling idiots and vicious renegades Lady Bevell made them out to be in her reports.  
They do not squat in the men of letters bunker like filthy savages despoiling and ruining what they do not understand.

It is obvious the Winchester brothers have things to add to the sum of Men of Letters knowledge, a unique outlook that has led to discoveries brushed over in the brother's stories during previous night's drinking session, hints that require investigation. Surely acquiring and recording that knowledge justifies patience.

Both brothers are still prickly and mistrustful, but Mick is hopeful. He wonders how differently things would have turned out; if Lady Bevell (or another operative) had turned up with a bottle of decent Scotch and some polite queries in the beginning; Instead of how things played out with the shooting, abduction and torturing of the younger brother.

…

A weird flicker of perception.  
Michele can tell time had passed, and now Mick is walking down one of the bunker corridors showered and dressed.

Voices come from ahead.

Dean's voice.

"Yeah, you look crappier." The older Winchester snips, presumably at his brother "I gotta hand it to Mick." Mick pauses interested to hear the conversation "Man, you get him started, that guy can drink. I mean, we can drink, but he's got, like, the Can Drink gold medal." Mick smiles to himself, he'd earned some respect last night? Good to know.

"Hey, you talk to Mom lately?" Sam queries of his brother as Mick reaches the door to the kitchen.

"Oh, I shouldn't worry about your mum." He greets cheerily making both Winchesters flinch and stare at him "Her and Ketch make quite the team."

Dean blinks at him blearily "Would you want your mom working with him?" He rumbles.

Fetching himself tomatoe juice from the fridge and a glass he regards the hunters easily "Well, I can't say. I never really knew my mum - Or my dad. I was on the streets till the Men of Letters found me."

Both Winchesters study him as if he is a new and slightly oddly shaped puzzle.

"How did they find you?" Sam asks, brow furrowed, uncomfortably eyeing the tomato juice in his hand like it is something distasteful.

"I, uh, picked a member's pocket. Not on purpose. I was just after a couple of quid. But I got a cursed coin from ancient Babylon instead."

"Yeah, sure. That could happen to anyone." Dean mutters.

"The Men of Letters decided I showed promised and signed me up." He took a beath "They gave me a life. They, um..." a flash of Timothy crosses Micks mind again _('please, please don't')_ a memory of a voice begs.

"You all right?" Sam asks, Mick finds his scrutiny and concern uncomfortable, others being concerned about him feels unnatural and ill fitting.

"Yeah. Always." Mick brushes off Sam's concern, picks up his glass of tomato juice "Got any vodka?"

Sam and Dean both groan and Dean rests his head back on the table.

They don't look much like unswayable rough tough hunters right now. Mick finds that comforting. It gives him hope.

He doesn't want ….

….

The vision jolts away in a move that lurches and jars as she is jerked away, slammed somewhere new.

…

The world is suspended, no light and a sensation of floating.

A drum beat keeps time in the darkness

Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub, lub dub, lub dub….

It is a metronome that encompasses the universe.

Below and threading through that sound is another, that rushes and surges and reminds Michele of wind or waves.

It is the most insane thing, whereever this place is Michele feels like she knows it at some deep-seated level.

It feels like love, like home, like all things good and safe.

They/she flex in the darkness, move in the warm depths of darkness, as they/she flex they/she see a small gold hued flare of… ('light' Michele's mind supplies) the flare of … light… briefly illuminates the cocoon of her world, but she can't comprehend what she sees.

A muffled cry pierces the now darkened space of her world, the surge of the wind pauses, then becomes staccato and uneven, the metronome beat speeds. Lubdub, lubdub, lubdub, lubdub, lubdub, lubdub…

"Doyouneedapillowor...whatever?" A voice grates. Michele struggles to translate the meaning of the sound, as if language is just out of reach.

The world tilts, there is a feeling of pressure, a groan and the surging and beat of the universe steadies.

"What'swrong?" The grating voice intrudes again.

"Ikeepgettingtheseweirdlittlepains." The voice is so close, all around, reverberating and bringing a flood of warmth, the voice is good.

"I'msureeverything'sfine."

"Why?Becausethisishowyoufeltallthetimesyouwerepregnant? Ineedtoseeadoctor." The sound of this voice is everything right good and soothing, but the way the metronome beat of the universe increases and a wash of something agitated floods in, is not.

It sparks an emotion the mind Michele inhabits cannot fully comprehend, but Michele knows it as dislike.

"Nodoctorwillunderstandthischild. Youbarelydo. We'vebeenheretoolong. Weshouldgo." This voice is the cause of the change within the universe. She/they _Dislike_ the intrusion of this voice, wish it would go away. Want to be alone with the soothing rush and slow-paced metronome of the universe, want the the voice of all that is good to be raised in harmonics and humming melody that bring bliss. This is a remembered _good_. Want to hear the voice whisper the secrets of the universe, meant only for them/her.

"No! Yousaidthatyouwouldhelpme. Iwannaseeadoctor. I'mnotgoinganywhereuntilIknowmybaby'ssafe." A feeling of pressure, cradled safe and warm in the darkness a wash of something soothing and fierce, that cries _protected_ , _how it should be_ , _always_ and _LOVED_.

…..

Michele comes back to herself from the vision. Back to sitting naked in a bath with water now cooling and stained crimson with shed blood.

The pain in her head is immense, worse than ever before, but the blood tinged tears on her cheeks come mostly from leaving that dark, warm, protected universe.


	69. Chapter 69: Sympathy for the devil

Chapter 69: Sympathy for the devil

 **Chapter 69**

"Why does it have to be?" Michele's voice is thoughtful, more like she is talking to herself; maybe she is…

They've been sitting in silence for the past hour, each pursuing their own projects with an open video call bridging the distance between them. Dean finds this weird, wants to know what the point of calling someone then basically ignoring them is, Sam can't explain it to his brother, that he finds it restful. Saying it reminds him of cramming for finals with Jess simply earned him a look that said Dean was questioning his sanity.

Sam glances at the laptop screen and away from the faded Latin document he's been puzzling out. (It appears to be an account by a 13th century cleric, concerning the pregnancy of a cloistered nun who claimed her child was fathered by an angel. The missive had been catalogued under prophecy rather than with the collection on angels, apparently because the pregnant nun had also had a series of prophetic dreams regarding the spread of the plague, across Europe.)

"Why does _what_ have to be…" He asks, she looks up, blinks at him like she's waking up.

"The Nephilim, Kelly Kline's baby Why does it _have_ to be an abomination that will kill us all?"

"Michele, the father of Kelly's Baby is … an arch angel. N- not just any arch angel, L-Lucifer…" he clenches his fists under the table, heart stuttering as much as his voice had done over that name, takes a deep breath.

Michele tilts her head slightly, looks at him and bites her lip, and he knows she's picked up on it.

"Sam, _I'm_ _sorry_ , I should have known better than to..." She reaches out towards the computer screen, then realises he's beyond her reach and drops her hand. Stares at him with liquid eyes like she longs to make it better somehow.

It's different from Deans response to the same thing, Dean either ignores these moments or becomes a storm of anger and reprisal.

This feels uncomfortably like acknowledgement and patience. He's unsure how to respond, wants to shake it off before it soaks in and dissolves his hard-won shell of Winchester defence, uncovers how weak and broken he is.

He tugs a hand roughly through his hair "Its fine Michele" pushes away her softness verbally. "The angels, the men of letters, everyone it seems, agree that this child is a bad thing. What makes _you_ think differently?"

"Because there's proof that Nephilim don't automatically destroy the world, there's the Bible …. Genesis 6:4"

"I _have_ read that verse Michele."

"It describes them as _heroes_ and men of renown."

"Sure but… the verse that follows, it says how evil humanity had become and how God regretted making mankind. 'Hero' isn't the only or best translation of that word, Michele. Gibborim, means strong, or powerful. It's a word used to describe Nimrod, the builder of the Tower of Babel. According to the Lore, the tower, wanting to reach to Heaven, was for the purpose of _**killing**_ _**God**_. Nephilim are _powerful,_ and power often corrupts."

"Really? You're saying Nimrod was a Nephelim? … I read something once, it argued The Antichrist would be from the line of Nimrod, so if he was a Nephelim…"

"I think we already averted the apocalypse" he told her mildly "We met an antichrist too… a boy called Jesse."

"The angel's fake version of the apocalypse… antichrist, as in joy buzzer kid?" Michele looked unimpressed and unconvinced "See that's exactly my point, he was powerful enough to bend reality, but he's probably living quietly in Australia right now, doing no harm to anyone."

"Australia?"

"Mmmm yeah, he was staring at a poster of Australia before he vanished on you, it was sort of implied."

"Well, huh…!"

She rolled her eyes at him "I sometimes think that your life would be easier if you were more of a narcissist, Sam. I know mine would be."

"W-what does that mean?"

"You know nothing Jon Snow… but that's mainly because you don't want to. Carver Edlund's books, my …. The Thi-" She stopped herself and an emotion chased across her face before she plunged on. "All you see are things designed to torment you…so you ignore them… all of them…" she rubbed her lips as she spoke "There is stuff in those books."

"Such as?"

"Such as Clipshow, my friend Peaches is right… the spell that made the angels fall, locked heaven, the one Metatron tricked Castiel into helping him with… it used a Nephilim's heart… She, the Nephilim, was working as a waitress... they called her an abomination because of _what_ she was, but Castiel didn't want to… kill her… he said she was _**innocent**_ and Metatron didn't deny it." She frowned at him "he only argued that her death was for the greater good of their people and would stop angelic destruction spilling down onto earth. She _was_ strong, strong enough that it took two angels to… kill her, but it seemed she was just trying to defend herself.  
In Carver Edl- Chuck's book, it played out like she was a sweet, nice 20 something girl minding her own business, working as a waitress. Then Castiel and Metatron turned up…  
I just… She didn't come across as evil."

Cas had never spoken of the Nephelim he and Metatron had killed, Sam could hardly blame him, things back then, they'd been crazy and complicated. As for Chuck's books he'd tried reading a few, but between the blow by blow account of his life's leastgreatest hits and Dean's graphic sexual exploits he hadn't been able to stomach them.

"Even if Nephilim aren't inherently evil, Michele. _This_ Nephilim will be _the spawn of Satan._ Its mother is out there _somewhere_ , with a prince of hell known for psychotic savagery." He reminded her, wearily running a hand over his face.

"I know… it's just… I know someone else an angel once described as an abomination, who was supposed to destroy the world … but he _didn't._

 _ **You didn't!**_

Angels can be wrong. So can the British men of letters!"

Sam blew out a heavy breath "Eileen's following leads, but we still can't find Kelly. Unless we find her, whether her child is a world ending abomination, or not… it's sorta a moot point."

"Did you talk to Eileen about Claire?" Her idea; Dean pitched it as 'The Apprentice: hunter edition,' it had surprised him, as had the weird byplay between them _and_ Deans insistence he take point on things.

"Both of them, Yes."

"And?!..."

"And they'll think about it." She nodded and let it go "Were you researching Nephelim?"

"No, I was umm writing...

Mick lurking creepily in your library. Asking about Nephelim. Saying you should have _shot_ Kelly…" her sentences became clipped as she fiddled with the cross and rings strung around her neck, not meeting his eyes. Michele didnt like the British men of letters. It was another thing that she and Dean had in common…

"Ah..." Mick's talk of shooting pregnant women, yes that would explain why Michele felt the need to table the theory that nephelim weren't automatically world annihalators.

What was he supposed to say? Moments like these, he became uncomfortably aware of the difference between their two worlds.

….

An old brick church or some similar building, now stripped to the bones.

Dingy brick columns and archways, high arched windows, striated by blackened bars, allowing only occluded light through glass opaque as cataracts.

Banks of melted candles burning in blackened candelabras gave a baroque air to the scene.

On a raised dais, flanked and back-lit by the warm glow of candles sat a throne (there was no other word for the huge carved monstrosity.)

On the throne sat Crowley King of Hell, dressed in his usual black suit with his silvery-purple tie, smirking a self satisfied smile at those assembled in front of him, men and women dressed in suits. Were they demons? Michele was uncertain.

At the foot of the dais was someone Michele recognized.  
Head bowed subserviently, bound in chains and collared the blonde man stood, facing the demon king of Hell.

He appeared unchanged and unharmed since last, she saw him.

' _Thankyou'_ she prayed silently, grateful he didn't appear to have been tortured, starved or mistreated, despite her failure to find a way to help him. Candlelight glinted off a gold ring on the man's left hand, a symbol that who ever this man was, he had been loved, was loved? As a husband, maybe a father.

"This is all done of your own free will, is it not?" Crowley asked gruffly.

"Yes, my Lord." The reply was subservient but not fearful.

"Look, kids. He goes where I tell him. He does what I tell him. He is _my dog_." The demon king lifted his voice, announcing his control to the assemblage while smiling smugly.

"Showtime, Marmaduke." The black clad ruler decreed with a careless wave of his hand.

"Yes, my Lord." The captive stepped forward past Michele's viewpoint, to face the crowd.

"He's right, my friends. There is only one true ruler of Hell." The blonde man declaired his voice pitched to carry to the back of the room.

"And that is me, is it not?" Crowley prompted.

"Oh, yes."

"And you surrender your heartfelt support to that one true ruler?" Crowley coached his captive.

"Absolutely."

"And what do you have to say to those who are still unsure of whom they must obey?"

"I say this – anyone who does not support this one true king, can be assured of suffering unendurable and everlasting agony."

This was greeted with thick silence.

"I don't hear applause." The blonde man prompted, he almost sounded amused for a moment.

The crowd of ?demons? begrudgingly began to clap

...

…as Michele gasped and surfaced from the vision into pain and blood, to find both Winchester brothers staring at her.

….

Dean followed the sound of conversation to the library but walked in to dead silence, his brother staring anxiously at the laptop screen.

Surveying the video feed, he cursed in surprise. Mitch looked like she was unconscious or having a fit, blood ran down her face soaking the front of her shirt, but the _really_ freaky thing was her eyes, they looked like tiny fireworks were going off inside them. Sam's eyes flicked constantly between the image and the clock in the corner of the screen. How long had she been out? Was she breathing?

The light in her eyes went out.

Sam had watched too many women he cared about die. Where the hell were her husband, her kids? Shouldn't someone be calling 911?

Relief, when she gasped in that first ragged gulp of air. ' _Okay not dead.'  
_ Pushing herself upright in her chair, she blinked painfully at the camera.

"Welcome back" Sam murmered quietly, face schooled to mildness.

But Dean noted the catch in his breathing, the way his brothers hands clenched and unclenched against his knees under the table, Sam's body was tense, practically thrumming with tension.

Sam hated watching good people suffer and you couldn't deny Sammy's little gal pal was hurtin' no matter how she might try to down play it.

When Sam ended up oozing blood he'd been in agony, back when he was doing his freaky psychic boy stint. It had to be a similar deal.  
It hadn't escaped his notice either, that the tears she blinked away were stained with blood, the freaky light show was probably rupturing something.

"It was the blonde man again, Crowley still has him." Michele hushed, licked her lips and grimaced, wiped at her face with the back of her hand.

"Y-you should go clean up, rest..."

"Ugh soon, the bathroom seems like a long way. Let me get the vision out first, please?"

Sam nodded reluctantly still looking tense, shifted in his seat, blunt nails digging into the denim of his jeans. The worst was over wasn't it?

Michele relayed what she'd seen haltingly, she was pretty good with the details, quoted what was said word for word, even got the ponce of Crowley's gravelly accent right. Sam coaxed a few extra details out of her, but you couldn't really ask for more.

"So blonde dude isn't human or an angel, probably a high-level demon, someone that's been challenging Crowley for power."

"Sounds like it, Yeah."

"A demon?" Michele frowned at them.

"If blondie was straight up human he wouldn't have the same amount of stubble, he'd have a beard by now… he was wearin' the same clothes an' didn't look any worse for wear. That, plus Crowley's little show of dominance, it was an object lesson for the hench demons. The phrases 'only one true ruler of hell' 'surrendering heartfelt support'… imply blondie's got pull in the ranks."

"But … it's a demon _inside_ a man, someone's husband."

Sam held up a placating hand "hold up, Michele, not necessarily, not even probably…H- high ranking demons they keep their meatsuits for years."

"He's right Mitch, the major players they don't like sharin' realestate. Blondie the actual dude… he's probably dead or so broken he's beyond saving. Demons ride their meatsuits hard, especially the heavy hitters."

"No! There's a reason I'm seeing him. This is the second time. I've got to help him!" She went to get up, as if she'd rush off to points unknown and fight the minions of hell by herself.  
Standing up too fast gave her headrush, kicked her back onto her ass again. Which pissed her off more, left her glaring at them through her hair, all pale skin, gore and feral eyes.

Sam winced "Hey hey, calm down, b-r-e-a-t-h, _Michele please_!" Little brother deployed puppy eyes, but they had no effect.

Dean felt a moment of gratitude that Mitch knew shit about demon summoning.

"Mitch, cut it out, look at me!" He growled "Give me _one_ detail that'll help us track this guy, just one. Ya know we've got nothin' … Crowley, he ain't our friend and he ain't gonna give us the thing he's usin' to cement his power structure, just for asking! okay? Dial it back a notch."

She blinked at him, swiped her hair back out of her face and bit her lip "Sorry Dean, Sam. You're right..." She flashed them both a look that reminded him of Puss in Boots from Shrek 2.

"First rule of hunting is you can't save everyone, sweetheart. It's not nice… but it's a fact of life. Take a breather Puss in boots... unfluff your tail 'kay?"

"…okay... Puss in boots?"

"You say you're the frickin' cat in this fairytale. You got the sexy accent. Ability to go zero to a hundred in naught point five… the kewpie doll eyes…"

That drew a half smile out of her.

"Pffff … Yeah, whatever… maybe, we both do the 'don't hurt me I'm little and cute' thing, that's about it. Swords and swashbuckling? So not me, I couldn't even 'stick em with the pointy end.'"

Sam's phone announced a text.

"That Mick?"

"Nah … Eileen, says she's got something. Wants to meet."

Dean caught Mitch's hopeful smile at Eileen's name, she looked like she was gonna start asking Sam about grandkids any day. Seriously?! And she claimed _he_ wasn't subtle.

"She may as well come to us, she's a legacy too, right?" That earned him one of Mitch's proud Mom smiles, one he so didn't deserve.

"Yeah, I should go, clean up, before everyone gets back from the mall."

Sam gave the woman a searching look, frowning at her all puppy eyed "You're going to be okay?"

"Y-e-s S-a-m," she sighed "Always."

Then she smirked "Now go clean up your rooms, you've got guests coming." She poked out her tongue and logged off still grinning.

—-

Please leave a review before you go. I admit lately I've been feeling a lot like the Sam Redden song "Say something I'm giving up on you"


	70. Chapter 70: Double bind

Chapter 70: Double bind

 **Chapter 70**

Michele's husband drove back from the mall feeling exhausted and irritable. Five steps out of the car park and into the mall it had become apparent he hadn't thought through the outing very well.

He's forgotten how much his eldest son hated public spaces. He'd also forgotten how quick and uncoordinated his youngest son was and how teenaged twin daughters didn't want to be seen dead with their father.

Over the past 8 years since his wife became a stay at home Mum, he'd lost touch with what it was to be the one in charge of the children. His time as a solo dad seemed light years ago, in a galaxy far, far away.

Finally, he'd resorted to café bribery with chocolate cake, to keep all four children in one place and somewhat happy.

Even then, the daughters only had eyes for their cell phones, his eldest son ended up curled up under a chair with his hands over his ears, and his youngest son ended with more cake on him and on the floor surrounding him, than in him.

Now he was returning, a humbled man. Schooled in gratitude, but also with a small measure of pride, knowing he had done a good thing. Taken his children out and away from their mother, because he could tell she needed a break.

A break from the kids (and maybe him.)

She loved the kids, so much. They both did, but they were hard work. -Especially the boys- even when you were at 100%. Lately that was something his wife wasn't, thanks to the migraines and nosebleeds.  
Once he'd thought when you got sick, you went to the doctors or hospital then they worked out what the issue was, and fixed it. That was their job and that's what his taxes paid for. First with his son's autism diagnosis and now, with whatever was plaguing his wife, he was ready to throw that belief out the window.

Somehow, the endless doctors had found no explanation for, or way of fixing her. The transfusions and other stuff just didn't seem to be cutting it.

He wasn't the worlds smartest man, a working-class guy with no illusions. Usually he left all the medical stuff to Michele, she had the degree and the smarts for that stuff; he couldn't understand how a bunch of highly trained medical professionals could be so damned clueless.

Human beings _were_ a bit more complex than alarm systems or electrical circuits. He knew _they_ got intermittent unexplained faults. Sometimes it was user error, sometimes it was a rat gnawing the cables inside the wall or a circuit board dying, things that weren't obvious... But you found the problem and you fixed it! You didn't go home till you had.

Michele was a darn sight more important than any alarm system! Why didn't the doctors get that? Why didn't they find the problem and fix it? The doctors got paid way more than he did, how could they kid themselves they were doing their jobs, or sleep at night?

He realised he was clenching the steering wheel too tightly as he drove. Could feel it creaking under the strain, took a few deep breaths and forced himself to loosen his grip.

It was just… if the trip to the mall had reminded him of anything it was of how much Michele did. For him, for the kids, for all the random people who kept walking up to him or the kids and asking, "where's Michele / where's your mum?"

His wife thought she went through the world unnoticed or wanting to be, described herself as nothing special.

She didn't see herself like he did.

She looked at him like he was sweet but slightly deluded when he struggled to explain how beautiful she was to him, said she'd answer to cute and smart, but he'd mixed her up with someone else if he was using the term beautiful.

Michele compared herself unfavourably with the twin's birth mother. _She'd_ been all mocha skin, legs that went for miles, airbrushed perfection _on the outside_. But when you scratched the surface she was also certifiably nuts, with the attention span of a goldfish and the maternal instincts of a cuckoo.

Michele was a different sort of beautiful, it went all the way through. When you scratched _her_ surface, she glowed. She lit up his world, everyone's world, made wherever she was brighter.

He wasn't too proud to admit he was terrified of losing that light, couldn't escape the suspicion there was a ticking time bomb behind his wife's eyes, waiting to explode and snuff her out.

…..

Upon returning home with his carload of kids, he found the light of his life sitting on their bed, fresh out of the shower. Wearing only bra and knickers, her hair drying into ringlets over pale shoulders. It would have been one of his favourite looks, except for the blood-soaked towel in her lap and the slump of her shoulders.

"Another one?!" It wasn't so much a question as a statement.

"Yeah" His wife wrinkled her freckled nose at him and fisted the bloody towel in her lap. "How was the mall?"

"An exercise in bribery and trauma. Life without you is a nightmare!" He made it sound like he was kidding, but he wasn't.

"Bribery?"

"Muffin break's chocolate cake."

She pouted at the mention of the cafe, eyes doing their kicked kitten thing over missing out. It made him grin, such a poor, hard done by little girl.

He held out the takeaway cappuccino he'd been hiding behind his back.

"You love me!" She beamed.

"Say it with caffeine. Helps raise your blood pressure doesn't it? Like the doctor ordered … Though, I _can_ think of a _much_ more fun way to do the same thing..." He eyed her current outfit speculatively as he handed her the takeout cup.

She gave him a scandalised look, picked up her shirt and pulled it over her head and gave him a teasing grin "How many times do I have to tell you? Sex does not cure everything for _Normal_ people, especially migraines."

" _Does too_ cure migraines! I sent you that link, the journal of Sept-algae or something."

"Cephalalgia… the participants in that study just filled out a _questionnaire_ " she sniffed "That's pseudo-science in my book. You just like to _think_ sex fixes everything."

"It does." He replied staunchly

His wife looked miserable suddenly. "Sometimes sex gets people into trouble, sometimes children happen that everyone says are bad news." She murmured.

Sliding to sit beside her he wrapped an arm round her shoulders and pulled her close. Wishing he had the words to reassure her that 'everyone' was wrong, that the two little boys she'd brought into the world were going to be good news.

That 'everyone' knew nothing. Wished he was eloquent enough to convince her once and for all that her sons weren't different because of something she'd done or not done, ached to take away the guilt she loaded herself up with.

"Did you send out a questionnaire to find out what 'everyone' thinks? My wife, she says what everyone thinks… isn't acceptable data. Chris and Johnny they're fine, okay?"

A look flickered over her face when he said their son's names, then she blinked and nodded slightly; rested her head against his shoulder and sighed deeply.

…

Michele felt a surge of guilt as she dropped her head to rest on her husband's shoulder, she was living two lives. He thought she was worrying about their sons, when in truth her head was full of the vision, thoughts of the Nephilim and the weighty question of whether to tell the Winchesters what she'd seen.

….

Kelly Kline had been/ would be walking towards the Westview medical clinic, her hand making restless circular motions over her gravid stomach, soothing herself and her unborn child.

Kelly's head was filled with protective worry and anxious love for her child (Michele remembered a million moments doing the same. One of those pregnancy things every woman does, while she worries about or dreams of, the life growing within.)

Kelly felt a bubbling mistrust of Dagon, it was the reason she had practically sneaked out for this return visit to Doctor Turner, the woman/demon seemed to be helping her, true. But something was …off.

She tried to push her doubts about Dagon aside, what other choice did she have, who else did she have to turn to? Dagon was right, everyone else wanted her baby dead.

Kelly cradled her stomach protectively, remembering her first glimpse of him; her son, in the grainy black and white scan image...

Maybe, if Doctor Turner wanted another scan she could ask for a printed copy of the picture.

If Dagon hadn't hustled her away so quickly before, she'd have thought of it the first time.

…Her baby's first photo.

Kelly felt a sudden pang, thinking of photos made her miss her own mother intensely.

Eva Kline had raised her alone working double shifts as a nurse, died of metastasizing breast cancer the year Kelly turned 21.

What would Eva Kline have thought? Her only daughter knocked up and on the run, carrying the child of Satan and or The President… With Eva Kline's political cynicism both were interchangeably odious…

But still, Kelly was sure, if her mother had lived to see this, she would have let out a long sigh at the news, then rolled up her sleeves, favoured her only daughter with a stern look saying, "So that was _yesterday_ , what are you going to do _Today_ my girl?"

 **Then suddenly** , Dean Winchester was there, falling in step alongside her, grabbing her arm. Making her jump and give a small shriek, her heart jumping like a cornered jack rabbit.

His grip was iron as he growled at her to stay cool and walk with him, dragging her along, then shoving her into a huge black monstrosity of a car.

…

Dean was going to find Kelly Kline, but Sam wouldn't be with him? Why?

Was Dean going to kill Kelly Kline like Mick Davies had suggested? Was that why he was keeping Sam out of it?

Michele's thoughts flicked to and shied away from memories of the sirens death. Remembered her horror, when she'd written Dean's thoughts about mercy killing Claire and why he'd called her that day.

If she told the Winchesters what she knew - where to find Kelly, would she be signing the woman's death warrant or getting help for her? If she told the Winchesters and then Dean killed Kelly, it would be no different than if she pulled the trigger herself. The blood would be on her hands.

But if she didn't tell the Winchesters what she'd seen, and the child became what everyone thought… not saying anything, could doom the world.

It was a double bind. Michele turned into her husband's embrace and buried her face against her husband's chest. Wishing she could just hide from everything.

….

"If you're checkin' up we're cleanin' our rooms Mitch, I gotta say…"

Sam tried to shrug Dean off from where he was leaning over his shoulder.

Michele's face was tense and strained, there was a tiny smudge of blood caught in the crease besides her mouth, it tugged at Sam's attention maddeningly and made it obvious she'd had another vision.

"What? No, I..." She seemed to shake herself, dismiss Dean's opening volley in the game they habitually played, instead fixed her eyes on him with laser intensity.

"Sam, if you found Kelly Kline what would you do? Would you kill her? Would you do like Mick Davies suggested and shoot… shoot her between the eyes?"

"I … uh…" he ran a palm over his face, scrubbed the back of his neck. "We wouldn't _want_ to do that Michele, we'd try and find something… a way… that uh … didn't involve killing her." He looked back up at the screen and met her eyes. Her lips were trembling as she took a shaky breath. Her eyes cut sideways.

"Dean?"

"What do you want me to say Mitch?"

"I want the _truth_ Dean, it's pretty much all I've ever asked of you. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me if you're willing to wait, get her away from Dagon and look for another answer, or if I'll be complicit in… two murderers."

"M-Michele what _we_ do, t-that will be on us _not_ you…"

"You know nothing Jon Snow." She hissed the words "It'll be the siren over again, I'll get to hold the gun _and_ feel the bullet shatter my skull." Sam flinched, felt Dean's glare demanding to know what she meant. "But that's not the point, if anything… that's justice… if I give you this and then you... I can't pretend I'm blameless. The man who passes the sentence _should_ wield the sword.

So Dean. Where was Sam when you were off grabbing Kelly? Did you ditch him, so you could take care of the 'problem' without Sam interfering?"

"Mitch you're askin' me why I did somethin' I haven't done yet. Don't even know what you're _talkin'_ about."

Michele looked stricken "Shit!" (Sam thought distantly that he wasn't sure if he'd heard her cuss before.) Her hands flew to her mouth and her face crumpled "What if I just put the idea in his head - what if it's a self-fulfilling prophecy...?!"

Sam felt a moment of irritation, it wasn't that he didn't sympathise with her, but she was worse than Dean, trying to shoulder the blame for every goddamned thing, and a hell of a lot more emotional with it. Dean _was_ quite capable of deciding to ditch him so he could take care of business, without prophetic suggestion.

Thing was, Sam was pretty confident they'd gotten past that. He was also fairly sure his brother _couldn't_ kill a pregnant woman in cold blood, even if there was a monster growing in her belly.  
He might set out to do it, sure. But now he was free of the mark, when push came to shove, Dean would cave... Unless there _really_ was no other way. The fact that Michele didn't know that, it kinda pissed him off.

"Michele" he kept his voice even "we can't _make_ you tell us what you know. Nothing we're able to say would convince you." Pinching the bridge of his nose he drew a breath and looked down "We've both killed, done things we regret. I think…you are old enough to know… there are times, when _there are no good answers_. If it comes down to one life against the whole world... _Tell me, seriously… where would you cast your vote_."

Michele didn't say anything for a long time and he could see the moral struggle carved deep on her face.

"With you…" she spoke the words like an admission of guilt "with you _**both**_." Her lips twitched "That's why I'm here… You… you're both _good_ men, you'll … try. I'm sorry Dean, sorry for forgetting that.  
God Himself was willing to trust you at the end of all things, how can I not do the same?" She blew out a breath "I saw Kelly walking towards a medical clinic, **Westview Medical clinic**."

Sam opened a search engine, started searching for a Westview Medical clinic. Found eight of them in six different states.

"She was worrying about the baby, she doesn't trust Dagon but she feels like she has no choice because she _loves_ her son and everyone wants to kill him. Dagon didn't know about the appointment... with **Doctor Turner**."

Sam ran concurrent search for Medical Doctors with the last name Turner.

"…Kelly was there alone, she practically snuck out for the appointment. It wasn't her first with the doctor… so there'll be records, she was wishing she had printout of her baby's scan photo." Michele's face took on that 'Mom look' she got when she talked about her kids "she didn't get to ask the first time because Dagon hustled her away too quickly."

Sam saw Dean roll his eyes and pull a face like he tasted something sour.

Annoyingly, Turner was a popular last name for Medical doctors. Five of the Westview's had Doctor Turners listed on their staff records (one had two) … but there were no guarantees the Doctor Turner they were looking for wasn't a new hire at one of the others and the staff records just weren't up to date yet.

"Michele what else can you give me?"

"Kelly's Mum was called Eva? She was a nurse and solo mum… took lots of photos of Kelly as a child… her Mum didn't like politics… She died when Kelly was 21... of metastasised breast cancer… Kelly misses her... She feels really alone…"

Those details, _those_ were the details Sam didn't want. Kelly Kline had been a pawn in the game, a victim, a way of luring Lucifer out. Then, she and her unfortunate pregnancy had become a loose end that needed tying up. Michele was turning her into more, filling in her past and emotions making her into someone with hopes and fears.

He glanced at Dean, who'd begun pacing, was greeted with hooded eyes and Dean's best game face.

"What _sex_ is Doctor Turner? That would help narrow it down." Hoping to stop the flow of… _Kelly_.

"No… I… Kelly didn't attach a sex to her thoughts about the doctor… but Doctor Turner and Westview Medical Clinic isn't that enough?"

" _Your_ country might be a postage stamp, with a few dozen doctors…" Dean grated "…Here, outside the frickin' _Shire_ it's… just not okay! That info, Sammy's narrowed it down to five Medical practices _in four different states_. If _and it's a big if,_ the records he dug up are accurate and semi up to date. Can you at least give us a time line?"

"How long, no. Time of day, possibly lateish afternoon from the shadows… But Dean seemed to know exactly when she'd be there. So, you'll find her." Michele seemed certain, almost numb now

"…He walked alongside her, grabbed her arm, told her to keep walking, marched her to the car like a body guard and drove off with her before she could even make a fuss. It was so smooth it seemed almost choreographed."

"What can I say, I know how to pick up Chicks." Dean crowed with a smirk.

"She was terrified! So, excuse me if I'm not wowed by your skills with women. You're a _very_ scary man."

"No, I'm not, I'm adorable." Dean disagreed giving her a hundred-watt smile.

Sam kicked back in his chair and watched them squabble.

"No, you're not. I'm adorable - when I work at it, adorable implies little and cute. You, Dean Winchester, are neither."

"I'm cute!"

"Na uh, you're beautiful."

"'m not frickin beautiful."

Sam smirked to himself. Dean was bipolar about his looks. He'd use them and flaunt them when it suited him, other times he'd seemed to hate or be ashamed of them.  
But _any_ feminine descriptor really got his back up.  
It came from growing up in a series of crap motel rooms and seedy bars where the dregs of society gathered. Dean's too plush lips, almost girly lashes and sculpted cheekbones marked him out as prey in the eyes of the kind of monster that wasn't in any lore book. To compensate, Dean puffed himself up to twice his size and put on a thick layer of hyper masculinity.

"Are too," Michele stated with that defiant little lift of her chin "... like a wolf or a tiger or even a shark's beautiful. You both are. Beautiful the way most top of the food chain predators are."

Sam felt a weird moment of surprise, she'd meant it, had included him in her assessment, as if it was obvious. He'd spent his life being called a freak by school yard bullies, mocked by his brother over his hair (which, along with his eyes, were the only feature people had ever seriously mentioned in a positive light) or being dismissed because he didn't measure up to his big brother. He'd gone from being small and weedy, to too tall and gangly. People called him 'the smart one' for a reason.

Dean seemed nonplussed and uncertain if she was hitting on him, mocking him… or narrating a wildlife documentary "Yeah well, you got a freckle on the end of your nose."

Which was a typically middle school comeback, but still made her scrub at her nose muttering "At least I _have_ freckles, and no one thinks _I'm_ blonde" which Sam suspected was a dig about Fanfiction. (Weirdly a lot of writers thought Dean was blonde, with freckles and bright green eyes.)

"So, I'll try hacking the records of the Westview Medical Centres, look for women Kelly's age that are 4 or so months pregnant. With a Doctor Turner listed as attending…" Sam suggested before the two of them got onto topics he wanted left alone.

"No, that can't be right." All Michele's levity fled, and she looked like she'd been reminded of something highly unpleasant "Kelly's at least 6 or 7 months pregnant, isn't she?" She made an arch with her hand to demonstrate.

"No… but…" Sam's stomach lurched "there's lore that indicate Nephilim gestate quicker."

"Great, just great, the time bomb's got a fucking short fuse? Fan-freaking-tastic you got any other good news Cassandra?"

Michele looked sort of grey "No… not good news."

"Somethin' though." Dean challenged.

"You don't want to hear this."

"Yeah we do."

"Dean, I've told you everything I saw… Do I have to point out the rest? Please don't make me explain..."

Silence stretched between them.

When she continued her voice became very quiet and weirdly colourless "I lost a child before … before Johnny. I know what it feels like. Even if you don't kill Kelly, she loves her son the way I loved Davie. Losing a child… it breaks you inside. Your Mum, I think she …" Michele stopped herself abruptly.

"But that's not… It's about medical logistics … how are you going to…?" Michele faltered again, couldn't bring herself to say it "She appears to be the equivalent of third trimester. That's _not_ a quick trip to an abortion clinic anymore… it's not even _legal_ after 20 weeks here… I know America's different. But she's not going to _consent_ to you killing her child or go meekly to some medical facility. It's a major medical procedure now, Sam… even if it's legal. You're either talking surgery or killing it then inducing her, she'd still have to basically give birth to her child's dead body. Do you understand?"

Michele laid things out like she'd obviously thought through and agonized over it all before she'd even contacted them.

She was right.

They _didn't_ want to hear it.

 **Authors note:** Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou ngregory, unknown guest, ButterflyAlley, magic26446 and Kat for your reviews I appreciate them more than words can say. If you keep feeding me reviews, I promise this fic won't become one of the ones that never gets finished, we'll get to our destination.  
Thankyou also to Cougar because you listen to me whine. Sorry ngregory, I didn't try talking Sam into spilling a glass of water on Dean this chapter. We were all feeling too angsty to feed your wet Dean requirements.


	71. Chapter 71: Best Laid Plans

Chapter 71: Best laid plans

 **Chapter 71**

Dean paced as he listened to Cas's stupid answer message for the third time that day.

They hadn't heard from him in too long. Dean was starting to worry.

But that was beside the point. Right now, Cas needed to quit chasing whatever half-baked National inquirer lead he was following and get his defeathered ass back to the bunker.

Eileen would have the other half of the info they needed. At some point soon, he'd go grab Kelly from outside that medical clinic.

Then they'd need to hide Rosemary and her short fused timebomb while they worked on how to get the thing out of her. It would be a butt load easier with Cas to chicken scratch up her ribs so no one, including Kelly's friend, Dagon, the Prince of Hell known mostly for her psychotic savagery could find them…

"Come on, Cas. I've called you three times now." He cleared his throat and stopped himself from spilling out everything that was buzzing through his head "Will you call me back? We've got a line on Dagon. We need your help."

Hanging up he wandered back to the war room where Sam and Eileen sat at the map table drinking beer.

"So you ran the plates of every car that drove past that warehouse in Idaho just before it burned down?" Sam clarified.

"Yeah. Most of them were local, but one wasn't. It came up registered to Dermott Culp." The brunette hunter answered in that throaty uninflected voice that marked her out as deaf.

"So...?"

"So, he went missing a year ago."

"Okay." Dean crossed his arms and watched the byplay between his brother and Eileen feeling irritated with himself _and Mitch_ for it, now she had him searching for any sign of sparks between the pair. It was _damn_ irritating.

"I tracked his car to Iowa. Found him coming out of a building carrying a dead body." Eileen continued drawing out the tale (maybe, to show off to Sam?)

"So, Dermott's a killer?" Dean queried.

Eileen tilted her head "Dermott's a _demon_." Said it as if it were obvious.

"Uh, one of Crowley's?" Sam asked showing he was clueless too. They weren't as smart as Eileen gave them credit for.

"Works for Dagon. Covers her tracks." _Now_ it made sense.

Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise "Smart."

Dean felt a surge of irritation with his brother, he'd get a lot further with the woman if he complemented _her_ rather than the bad guys.

"Dude, don't compliment the bad guys."

Eileen laughed softly a flirty smile curving her lips as she looked at Sam, he smiled back.

"Uh... So, do you know where Kelly is now?" Sam asked hesitantly.

"No. But before Dermott got stabbed in the heart..." Eileen smirked.

"Nice." Dean couldn't help the complement, and hoped little brother would see how it was done. It was so damn nice to be working with a hunter that just got on and took care of business after Miss Right-to-life, bleeding heart, hobbit's endless angsting.

"Mm-hmm." Eileen received his complement with a smile "He _gave_ me her phone number." She continued with another smile, from the edge to it, Dean was sure the giving involved some fairly creative angel blade application.  
Wondered briefly whether Sam's pet would be _quite so_ starry eyed about matchmaking Sam and sending Claire off with the woman if she knew.

Eileen tilted her head coyly and smiled up at them both as she retrieved a piece of paper from her pocket and slid it across the table to Sam.

"Yeah, nice." Sam agreed echoing her smile back, clinked his bottle with hers in a toast and took another mouthful of beer.

( _and hallelujah the boy could be taught!)_

"The dead body?"

"A Doctor Michael Turner."

Dean felt a small jolt, why he wasn't sure, he knew it was coming.

"Of Westview Medical Centre" Sam finished, earned a questioning frown from Eileen.

"Ho-w…?"

"We have a…" Sam paused, ducked his head, looked at a loss at how to describe Mitch.

"Psychic." Dean finished for him "The woman told us Kelly would have an appointment with a Doctor Turner at Westview Medical Centre… problem was that narrowed it down to…"

"Five Westview's in four different States… and no definite timeline."

"Which was useless." Dean continued sourly, Sam frowned at him, looked for a second like he was going to argue or defend Mitch, then didn't.

"But... Doctor Turner, he's dead...!?" Eileen frowned at them both.

Sam held up the piece of paper with the phone number on it, grinned ferally " _Kelly_ doesn't know that."

And there it was, one self-fulfilling prophecy. They'd ring Kelly, make the appointment, and she'd come.  
They just needed to iron out the details.

"We're gonna need the Colt, with the Michael lance gone, it's the only thing we know that'll kill a Prince of Hell."

"Yeah, I'll call Mick."

….

It turned out, the reason why Dean had been alone snatching Kelly in Michele's vision was because timing required them to be two places at once. They needed to move quick, before Doctor Turner's murder became public.

So, while Eileen and he were standing in a scrap yard beside the Mississippi, waiting to meet Mick and the Colt. Dean was two hours' drive away approaching the Iowa suburb that held Westview Medical Centre.

Sam checked watch again, stood from where he'd been leaning against Eileen's cherry red Chevy and breathed a deep sigh.

They'd agreed on giving Kelly only a small amount time between the call and the meeting.  
Michele said she was worried about the baby, urgent appointments did that.

Sam dialled the number, still wondering if it could possibly be this easy. They didn't get easy often.

The phone picked up.

"Ms. Kline?" Sam asked in a British accent (he'd noticed the way people responded to Mick's accent, and he didn't want to risk Kelly recognising him.)

"Yes?" Kelly responded cagily.

"This is Oliver, in Dr. Turner's office. He'd like to see you in the office today."

"I, uh, I was just in there. He said everything was fine."

"All right, well. He looked back through your test results and there are some things he'd like to discuss. Does 5:00 pm work for you?"

"I-I-I don't think I can get away."

"Well, he said it's very important. 5:00 pm?" Sam pushed.

"Um... sure."

Sam raised his fist a bit in triumph. "Good, see you then." He cut the call, turned and gave Eileen the thumbs up.

"Cool." She enthused with a cute little victory wiggle that made him grin. She beamed back at him.

The sound of a car drew his attention, he turned to face the noise, Eileen was quick on the uptake, followed his gaze.

Hopefully, it was Mick with the Colt.

The car that pulled up held two people. Mick Davies and taller pasty looking man.

"I thought you'd be coming alone." He greeted, scrutinising the two men as they approached.

"Well, I thought we'd gotten past our trust issues." Mick replied "Look, if Dagon shows, we're gonna need all the help we can get." He nodded towards the blonde guy "This is Renny Rawlings. New man." There was something in Micks body language that told him Mick wasn't comfortable with the 'new man.'

"Right. I'm Sam. This is Eileen, Leahy." He nodded to Eileen.

"Ah, the banshee girl." Renny said condescendingly.

Eileen tilted his head questioningly.

"We have a file." He added, smug. "From what Mick tells me, neither of you have any formal training. Fascinating. I was top of my class at Kendricks..." Renny, who Sam was quickly beginning to think of as a pompous ass adjusted his tie self-importantly.

"No one cares." Eileen cut him off dismissively, and it was all Sam could do not to laugh.

Mick looked slightly pained.  
"I, uh, brought the Colt just like you asked." Held it out to Sam. "But it's gotta go back to HQ." He warned.

"Gee, Mick, I thought we'd gotten past the trust issues." Sam jibed good naturedly as he examined the gun.

Mick responded with a ghost of a smile.

….

Dean looked back at Kelly in the rear-view mirror as he drove.

She'd quit clawing at the doors trying to get out (Baby's doors were kiddie locked for the first time since... maybe, Sammy was out of diapers. It wasn't an entirely pleasant irony.)  
Kelly sat there, half curled up round her devil baby bump, silent.

 _('_ _She was terrified! So, excuse me if I'm not wowed by your skills with women. You're a_ very _scary man.')_

Mitch's voice echoed in his head as Kelly looked up flinchingly, met his eyes in the mirror.

"How did you find me?" There was a faint tremble in her voice.

"Dagon's hench demon killed your paediatrician. Your gal pal's got a clean-up crew, did ya know?  
A hunter pal of ours ran into him when he was dumpin' docs body.  
Got your number… with a bit of persuasion.

One game of phone tag, a goody-two-shoes hobbit. An' here we are."

"What are you going to do to me?"

That was a good question…

"First thing, we get you away from Dagon, she's a _demon_ Kelly."

"Yeah, _I know_ , so's your friend, The King of Hell."

Dean was stung "Crowley's not our friend! An' Dagon's not yours either. Demons, they've always got an angle Kell'… "

Kelly glared at him but didn't say another word. She'd changed from the hysterical mess of a woman they'd last seen; there was something slightly feral in her eyes now. Dean wondered if it was just having her eyes opened to the world as it was, or becoming a Mom, or if it was due to _what_ she was going to be a Mom to.

…..

Dean pulled the Impala into the scrap yard, it was dark now, but Dean could pick out Eileen's red Chevy and four people waiting.

Mick, Eileen, Sam... Where Cas _should_ be standing, there was some blonde dude in a tie.

Micks date no doubt. Another limey asshat that thought more of himself than he merited. Unless that blonde boyband hair was concealing a brain that knew how to ward against Princes of Hell he was just another liability, _Great_.

He turned off the engine and swung out "This everyone?"

"Yeah... Still no word from Cas." Sam squashed his last hope Cas was lurking somewhere out of sight.

"Right. Great." Walked round behind Baby to get to Kelly "Who's this?" He gestured at the dude in the tie.

"He's with Mick." Sam told him shortly, Dean noted Sam didn't bother with the dude's name.

"I'm Renny Rawlings. Graduated Kendricks top of my..." Yeah, Sam didn't give him a name cos he was an arrogant dick.

"Right. I don't care." He cut the man off before he could begin some puffed up British man of Letters monologue, caught Eileen's smirk. Apparently, she wasn't impressed either.

Opened the door for Kelly, offered her his hand "Come on."

"Don't." She knocked it away like he was some handsy jerk trying to cop a feel.

Raising his hands, he backed off a little "Okay."  
Let her lever herself out without help.

Shut the door behind her.

"Kelly... Listen, we... we all know you're in a really... difficult situation, and we... we just... We wanna help." Sam began, forehead creased, eyes earnest, hands lifted in supplication.

"You call this helping?" Kelly asked her hands cradling her stomach protectively. Sam gulped, almost cringed.

He was probably thinking of Mitch's face, her voice as she spoke about _her_ dead kid. _God,_ Dean hated that woman right now, as if this wasn't hard enough….

"Look, Kelly, that kid, it's... I mean, it can't... I mean, it's Lucifer's…" Dean stumbled helplessly, hardly able to look at her.

"Yeah _, I know."_

"You think I wanted this to happen?" She addressed that to Sam.

"He _used_ me." Kelly looked down, ran her hands over her stomach, closed her eyes and a grimace of love and pain etched itself on her face.

"But I _love_ this child." It was a vow as she cradled her son.

And what could he say, what could they say? … Nothing.

"You will mean absolutely nothing to that child." Mick Davies cut in "That _child_ **will kill us all."**

"Hey." Dean hadn't mean to speak, but it was too harsh, Mick didn't need to be a dick about it.

"That's... that's not happening, okay" Sam stuttered "We're... we're gonna figure something out. We will. We..."

"This is absurd." Renny flared suddenly, reached for his weapon.

"Don't!" Dean warned, stepping between the douche-bag and Kelly, reached for his own gun.

Suddenly, the wind picked up, as if a storm was approaching...

Kelly winced "She's here." She warned.

They drew their guns, circling Kelly. Sam with the Colt, trying to prepare.

Everyone scanned the surroundings anxiously, searching for the enemy, as the wind grew stronger and lightning flashed.

Dean had just enough time to think Dagon _Princess_ of Hell liked to make an entrance, before…

"Hey!"

Dagon materialised behind Sam, swept her hands up and apart, sent everyone but Kelly flying.

As he hit the pavement _hard_ andtumbledbehind the impala Dean was aware of Sam; who'd been slammed hardest, impacting the metal shed four feet above the ground. The Colt tumbling out of his grasp.

Dean scrambled to his feet raised his gun and began firing, was distantly aware of Mick doing the same on the other side of the impala.  
Dagon stalked forward un-phased by the bullets slamming into her.  
She made a slicing gesture with both hands and Dean found himself picked up and tossed aside again. Smashed against the wheels of some giant machine, like he was nothing. A mere gnat buzzing in Dagon's ears as she made her way towards Kelly.

Dagon grabbed her prize and Dean caught one despairing look from Kelly as she went limp, was dragged behind the demon like a misbehaving child.

There was a retort and a flash.

Dean realised Eileen had somehow gotten the Colt.

Taken a shot….

just as Dagon and Kelly disappeared…

The bullet continued on, as if in slow motion…

Ended its travels by ploughing into Renny Rawlings chest, accompanied by an unfairly insignificant thwack.

A look of shocked incomprehension lit the man's eyes…

His gun arm dropping to his side…

He slumped to his knees as blood dribbled, shocking red and fatal from the corner of his mouth.

Then, he collapsed.

Dean swung disbelieving eyes back to Eileen, just in time to catch the tail end of her horrified expression as she realised what she'd done.

Then Mick scrambled to his feet, staggered to his fallen colleague and crouched beside him.

The look on Mick's face confirmed everything.

Meanwhile, the Winchester brothers found their feet, Sam walked towards Eileen where she stood frozen in horror.

Dean approached the Man of Letters.

Suddenly Eileen's paralysis broke. She faltered towards Mick on rubbery legs, arms spread wide, the Colt dangling from her hand like dead weight.

"I didn't... I didn't mean to. I was shooting at the demon. I'm –" She pleaded with the man to understand.

Sam grabbed her shoulder turned her towards him, so she could read his lips "No, no, wait up. It was an accident." He signed the word for emphasis "It's all right." He soothed.

Suddenly Mick pulled his gun, stepped towards Eileen.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you doing?"

"Hey!" The brothers both lurched towards the man of Letters, who'd clearly lost his mind.

Mick took another step, teeth gritted like he was in pain, raised his gun "She killed a Man of Letters. S-she has to die." He gasped.

"It was an accident!" Sam barked incredulously.

"It doesn't matter!... The Code." Micks face crumpled.

"No! Hey! _Screw_ the Code." Dean gestured at Mick.

"Don't make this harder than it already is." he practically begged them to understand as his gun wavered.

"Mick, you don't have to do this." Dean raised his gun on the man, hoping the threat would make him stand down.

"Yes, I do!" Mick wailed.

"Please. Don't." Eileen begged quietly, doe eyes staring at Mick beseechingly.

Mick closed his eyes, looked like he might puke or faint.

"Mick, Mick, listen to me." Sam begged, walking forward "Mick, look, I-I know you guys h-have this Men of Letters Code you blindly answer to, but... look, you don't have to do that, Mick." Sam placed himself between Eileen and Mick, reached his brothers side with another step, without breaking eye contact with Mick he reached out and lowered Dean's gun.

"You're better than that." He continued

"You only have to answer to yourself.

You only have to do what you know is right.

You only have to answer to your own code."

Mick was panting like he'd run a marathon, like he was seeing a horror show in his head.

Slowly Mick lowered his gun, looking down, his face twitching in distress. The man was sweating and shaking.

"Just go." He grated.

They fled.


	72. Chapter 72: Fish, cut bait or go home

Chapter 72: Fish, cut bait, or go home

 **Chapter 72**

The troop from the garage is silent, just like the three-hour journey back to the bunker.

Belatedly it occurs to Dean, as he watches Eileen walk down the stairs in front of him, that he should have sent Sammy with her in that lipstick red Chevy of hers.  
That maybe Eileen needs some sort of Chick flick moment, to hug it out … or... something, after the almighty clusterfuck with Kelly, Dagon… and let's not forget the dead Man of Letters she accidentally shot (he can't even remember the guys name right now) and Mick's weird melt down.

The dude had been like some sorta Treadstone reject. The whole 'must follow _the code_ ' like he'd been programmed; don't pass go, and check your brain at the door, thing... it was 50 shades of messed up.

They'd all been on auto pilot after Dagon had disappeared with Kelly, after Mick's meltdown.  
Sammy had ended up riding shotgun and they'd followed Eileen's taillights back.

Now, looking at the way Eileen comes to a stop just inside the war room, like a windup toy who's clock work has run out, Dean thinks he's messed things up again.  
Eileen's staring into space as she wipes at her face like she's been crying.

"You okay?" He asks, then immediately regrets the impulse.

Eileen looks at him, eyes red and shiny and nods her head 'yes' and for a moment Dean thinks he's dodged a bullet … but then, she shakes her head with tears welling in her eyes.

"No…" she keens "He wasn't a monster.

He was...

I..."

Dean cringes internally, tossing a helpless look at Sam, he's so out of his depth.

Sam does what he always does in these situations _(Thank god!)_ Reaches out one of his big Sasquatch hands, clasps her shoulder.

"Hey..." turning her to face him, shakes his head mournfully. "It was a _mistake_." He says the words fervently signing for emphasis as he looks down at her.

Eileen steps forward and all but throws herself against Sam's chest.

Dean watches his little brother draw her closer, hunch a little and wrap himself round her, giant hands stroking through her dark hair in that surprisingly gentle way he has. Sam closes his eyes, rests his chin on top of her head murmuring soft reassurances as she begins to sob in earnest.

It all made Dean feel like the worst sort of voyeur, just standing there watching them.

… **.**

Dean paced the confines of his room, he'd fled, run out and left Sam to deal with Eileen.

Now he felt trapped and too wired to sleep. Rubbing the back of his neck he picked up one of the beers he'd snagged from the kitchen during his tactical retreat and twisted it's cap off with his ring.

Downed half of it in a few pulls, shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair.

Prowled the perimeter of his space again, before toeing off his boots, digging his keys wallet and phone out of his pockets and dropped them on the nightstand.  
Slid his gun under his pillow.

Then flopped face down on the bed with a groan, felt the mattress give and mold to his body.  
Stretched, flexed and arched his spine lazily taking stock of the day's damage.  
Barely anything by Winchester standards.

Bruises across one shoulder and hip, impact grazes on his elbows and a few wrenched muscles.

He considered taking a shower, weighed the benefits of hot water, now, against the risk of running into Eileen and becoming her shoulder to cry on…  
It wasn't that he didn't like her, sympathize or anything.

She was actually pretty cool.  
It was just… he'd probably say or do something that made things worse.

Sammy was _just_ _better_ talking down upset women, doing the feelings and reassurances crap.

Dean smirked to himself, while _his_ skill set… tended more towards taking women's minds right off things, rocking their world between the sheets... (above the sheets… on the sofa... against the wall… in the shower...)

Sammy's skill set was more appropriate here.

Besides, Mitch would probably approve of him giving them alone time.

Mitch… that was about the only silver lining to losing Kelly again, not having to face those stupid eyes of hers going all sad and accusing, while she tried to be _nice_ and not call him a baby killer...

Reaching out he snagged his phone.  
Saw she was on line, hesitated a moment wondering what to say, finished his beer, opened another and put in a call.

"Hey trouble." Such a bright breezy greeting, it knocked him off balance.

"Hey Mitch… uhh how're things?"

"All quiet on the western front and nothing exciting happens here, surprised you didn't know that." She gave a light laugh "though I did manage to lure Wingdiego down the slide at the duck pond."

" _You lured a wendigo down a slide at the duck pond?!"_

Yeah, Sam's pet had finally blown a fuse.

"Noooo!" She snorted amused "I get how you would … But no _**Wing**_ _-diego_ is a duck …. A very manky looking duck with a deformed wing that looks sorta like a clawed hand poking out... and one blind eye. I've got a photo somewhere…took it when I was modelling the ducks out of fondant for Chris' second birthday cake. It was a duck pond."

The whole conversation was a bit like expecting to crash into a reinforced concrete wall at a hundred miles an hour, then instead, being tumbled into a wall made of entirely of marshmallow and sprinkles.

"Let me get this straight you got a _duck_ to go down a slide."

"Umm yeah..." She suddenly sounded embarrassed "pretty daft huh? But Chris… he said both 'duck' and 'slide' …and for _him_ that's practically a dissertation, we got Slinky, the cat, _our_ cat, to go down the one at home the other day… so well... uhm one thing led to another..."

"You're one weird chick Mitch."

"Says the guy who hunts _monsters_!" He heard her shake her head.

"I'm awesome."

"So you're always saying hon, so you're always saying. _And I believe you_ … it's a pity _you don't_." What was he supposed to say? He sat up snagged his beer and took another slug.

"Where's Sam?" She asked, she always asked. Actually he was surprised she'd lasted this long.

He took another mouthful of beer. "With Eileen."

"Oh." There was a smile in her voice now "...so, you've made yourself scarce? You're a good brother Dean." There really was something about her voice that wrapped itself round you, made you feel warm. Or… he tilted the bottle and found it empty, maybe it was just the beer.

"So that's what ya did today? Trained stunt ducks?"

"Had my blood counts done. Picked blackberries down by the river. Made blackberry and chocolate chip muffins out of them, with the 'help' of my beautiful assistant… Did a load of boring chores, wrote some drivel… Now I'm watching Johnny and Chris stomp around in these _huge_ piles of oak leaves searching for acorns on the school playing field. _And_ talking to you, of course. How 'bout you guys?"

"Well you know…" he licked his lips, twisted the cap off another beer before plunging into it, trying to match her tone "Took a drive, abducted Kelly from a medical centre, got our asses handed to us by Dagon. Lost Kelly… But hey! _**I**_ didn't shoot anyone. Unless you count Dagon, an' she just shrugged it off... so yeah, there ya go."

Mitch fell silent for a while. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

He cleared his throat "Sorta figured you'd already know."

"Apparently not, maybe because I don't need to know?  
Maybe cos _you_ need to tell me?  
… But... only... if you want." Her voice was soft and intimate in his ear  
"Whatever you need... okay?"

"Well…" He drawled, voice heavy with innuendo to break the tension.

She laughed "Oh no no no! I'm sure we've had this conversation. Seriously does that ever work?"

"You'd be surprised darlin'"

"Not really… I know of a whole fandom of women, most of whom would pay good money for the experience."

"But not you." He grimaced, took a fresh mouthful of beer.

"Yup, as you said, I'm one weird chick.  
Quit deflecting Winchester.  
If it would help, and you weren't _on the other side of the planet…  
_ I'd get you a glass of milk and some home baking. Our milk comes in a plastic bottle though, so no Daisy the cow or lesbian milk maids."

"What?!" He didn't quite grasp what she was talking about. But, he could tell it was part of her skin crawly psychic shit.

"Sam was thinking about your milk preferences in "Blood, milk and whiskey." ' _Dean's head is a weird place that can hold both childhood whimsy and porn in close proximity without exploding.'_ I sorta loved that line, the words Sam has in his head sometimes, they're … poetic."

Yeah creepy.

"Fuck, I'm not drunk enough for this!"

"You and me both sweetheart.  
But here we are." He could imagine the sardonic pull to her lips as she said it.

"Dean… " He closed his eyes against the warm weight of the way she said his name "Fish. Cut bait. Or go home."

"Yeah, Yeah. Okay..."

He told her everything.

 **….**

They ended up in the room Eileen had been using, sitting on the bed because there wasn't any other furniture. Eileen was still clinging to him, half draped across his lap as he stroked her hair and made soft hushing sounds.

Thankfully her tears had trailed off a while ago, his jacket, shirt and undershirt were damp with them, moist against his skin.

Her tears had left her quiet in his arms now. He hoped she'd fall asleep soon, she had to be exhausted, they all were.

His thoughts flicked briefly to Dean, hoping he hadn't headed straight back out to find a bar and drown today's failure.

Shifting slightly, he breathed in deeply against her hair, feeling the soft strands brush over his lips, the sweetness of her rose shampoo filling his nostrils.

It had been a long time since he'd held anyone like this, a woman.  
Taking another deep breath of her scent, he settled his arms around her more comfortably, allowed himself to simply enjoy the sensation. Soak in the warmth, her soft curves against him.

 _God he'd missed this!_

Felt his body begin to respond to the thoughts and the closeness.

Yeah… definitely, it'd been too long!

He shifted, tried to gently detangle from her, get some space.

Her hands tightened their grip, slid over his undershirt and found skin.

Then, she was surging up, her mouth meeting his. Hot, wet and salty with tears.

Her hands swept beneath his shirt, sliding up over his bruised ribs and back, sending shocks of electricity flaring down his spine.

With a stuttered gasp that caught achingly behind his teeth he found himself kissing her back.

 _And, oh god!_

If he'd missed having a woman in his arms… This, this … _how had he not died without it?!_

He groaned as heat licked through his core, surged in his blood. Igniting with the play of teeth and lips and tongue. A blind man's hands sliding over heated skin on the way to cradle her face in his hands. Fingers knotted in her thick hair. Demanding and receiving surrender, he lost himself in the sensation.

Until they broke apart for air, and he looked down.

Felt a stab of disappointment.

Realised the brown eyes staring up at him, the face of the woman in his lap were not what he craved.

Dean, Dean would tell him he couldn't have who and what he wanted.

That he should take what he could get, while it was on offer.

Get satisfaction with the other consenting adult in the room.

To just let go, and go with the flow.

Eileen reached out a hand, her fingers tracing lightly over his cheekbone as she gave him a small awed smile, knotting her fingers into his hair, tugging lightly before drawing his mouth down to meet hers again.

He closed his eyes.

The way she nipped at his bottom lip, sliding her tongue over the small sparks of pleasure/pain, it unfurled a sensation in his chest that threatened to drown him. He tried to swallow back down another noise, one that sounded far too much like desperation.

When he opened his eyes again she was shrugging off her shirt. The creamy expanse of her exposed skin pale against the black lace cups of her bra, she looked up at him with wide eyes, gave him a heated smile, raised her head with a defiant little tilt of her chin… That reminded him crashingly of Michele.

The thought of Michele was like being hit by a wave of ice water.

No! He couldn't do this, what if she saw this, all of it? What if she was here? What if she was seeing this through Eileen's eyes, or his. He shivered flames licking in his gut at the thought.

For a sliver of a second, one hot wild moment he wanted to lunge forward and simply _devour_ the woman in front of him regardless, or because of that.

A hunger to take what he was allowed and damn the price.

What held him back was a feather in an avalanche, Osiris' feather, the weight of a million small moments, all the times Michele had smiled at him and told him he was a Good Man, _**believed it**_ with all that weird, bottomless faith she splashed around.

Eileen reached out to him and he caught her hands, shook his head.

"Eileen…. I can't …. It wouldn't be right. I'm … I'm sorry."

 **…..**

He told her everything.  
There was a weird sort of relief, telling someone how it had gone down. To arranging it and putting it out there in a sequence of events. Having her react and sympathise, tell him he'd done what he could, and that it was okay (or would be somehow.)  
It made something inside loosen and let go in his chest.

– Or maybe… (Dean set down another empty bottle.) Maybe it was the beer. Yeah, probably the beer… Definitely the beer.

Then suddenly, she gave a strangled yip of pain, there was a clatter that sounded like she'd dropped her phone.

In the background he could still hear the sounds of playing children, their screams and whoops, and heedless laughter.

But Mitch didn't answer any of his (increasingly alarmed) pleas or demands for proof of life.

For forty-two long seconds.

Then he heard a groan and the words

"Ohhh Sam… you idiot." Loud and clear, and plaintive as a cat locked out in a thunderstorm.

There was the sound of the phone being retrieved.

"Dean? Hey! You still there?"

"Yeah, what'd ya see?"

There was a deep sigh "Dean darling, this time... this time it's none of your business…  
None of mine either….  
Now… I've gotta go okay? … Clean up, get my boys home before some overly helpful PTA Mum notices and calls an ambulance on me.

Oh, and Dean. It's not 911 here; In New Zealand you call 111 for the ambulance.  
I love ya okay? Try and get some sleep. Tomorrow's another day."

…

 **Authors note** : Thank you unnamed guest for your review, it puzzles me a bit, why anyone would want to see _more_ of an OC. Especially one as umm … uninspiring and sorta annoying as Michele (For some reason _I am_ very fond of her kids and husband, though. -half smile-)  
Please understand that The Thing You Hate is, as far as I can tell, a WINCHESTER gospel. Prophets or any other messenger of God, are rarely in a story to be on center stage (unless they're being eaten by a whale as cautionary tale, of course. On that note those of you who wish to continue following this story (and if you do pretty please review…) will be pleased to know I am keeping firmly to dry land for the foreseeable future.)

Oh, and Kat… 'huh?' … Would you believe I've been spelling that word wrong for 40 years and spell check has never once complained… I'm still uncertain if it's a weird kiwi language thing, it could be … but I will endeavour to change my ways for your reading comfort.


	73. Chapter 73: Human

Chapter 73: Human

 **Chapter 73**

" _Can we talk, please?"_ There aren't many sentences that set a man's alarm bells ringing faster; so no, not the best opening.

Sighing in frustration Michele continues peeling carrots while chewing over what to say or do, she might have told Dean it was none of her business, but she _feels_ responsible.

She chops broccoli, mushrooms and capsicums to go with the carrots in that night's stir fry and ponders. Reaching over she cues some music from her phone. Sings along with Rag 'n' Bone Man's "Human" putting real sass into the lyrics

" _I'm only human  
I make mistakes  
I'm only human  
That's all it takes  
To put the blame on me  
Don't put the blame on me_

 _I'm no prophet or Messiah  
Should go looking somewhere higher  
I'm only human after all  
I'm only human after all  
Don't put the blame on me  
Don't put the blame on me."_

Realises she's feeling more than a bit frustrated with the situation, so tired of being the responsible adult in every aspect of her life.

She doesn't want to have an awkward conversation with Sam about his sex life, and her affect there on. Thinking about it makes her tummy feel tied in knots and full of panic, like when she has to confront or argue with an authority figure on her son's behalf.

Everything's upside down, her first serious parental type sex talk was supposed be along the lines of "True love waits" involving a heart warming moment with one of her daughters (or more probably a bit of eye rolling and a few huffy "I know Mum's.")

That's not what Sam needs.  
Sam _had_ true love and it was taken from him; the thought makes her unbelievably sad after writing out her own husband's thoughts and fears about the possibility of her death, just that morning.

Sam's heart is a Chernobyl blast zone, her stupid judgemental comments about Dean's Tom catting ways and her psychic presence have made things worse.

He needs to know… that she'd never begrudge him that, silly sweet selfless Sam, what he could have shared with Eileen. She wouldn't have judged him for what it was or wasn't. Even if she had to witness it briefly. She could set it aside.

Surely, mutual comfort and gratification between two consenting adults was better than the violence and blood she'd witnessed with the Winchesters already.

Less traumatic than the events in Montauk (the way everytime she came across a cable-tie in her husband's workshirt pocket she was accosted by flashbacks of Dean's bloody chewed up wrists, blank eyes and corpse pale face. Or the night her husband had suggested (half joking) that she tie him to the bed, how she had panicked and fled, locked herself in the bathroom while she had a minor panic attack and lost her dinner.) She'd met them in Montauk and her mind will never be spotless again, but that was life.

...

There's the noise of metal dragging over concrete as the front gate opens, the creak and slam of the mailbox hinges. Then, the galloping thunder of a matched set of running footsteps, the front door slams open like a stampede has hit the house.

"We're home!"

"Hi Mum."

A package lands on the bench beside her and two handfuls of carrot sticks disappear as the squall of soccer uniform clad twins squabble past on their way to dispute who gets first shower.

"Any idea what Dad ordered this time?" She asks the world at large, but none of her progeny are bothered by such mundane questions.  
She examines the package.

An overseas delivery… addressed to a "Mitch Chadwick" at her address.

It takes her longer than it ought for her brain to put together the country of origin, America, and the name the package is addressed to.

To realise that it's not a mistake and the package is meant for her. There's only one person that calls her Mitch and he's in America. She doesn't know what Dean Winchester could possibly want or need to send her.  
Hesitates before opening the package. It makes things feel _more real_ somehow, holding something tangible from a world that could have been until now, simply a figment of her unbalanced mind.

…..

The contents of the package aren't what she'd expected (not that she expected anything.)

Four boxes labelled anQuil 7.5 containing foil strips of tablets. A four-month supply according to the one tablet a day with or without food, schedule on the box.

A copy of the prescription for the medication, in the name of Mitch Chadwick.

And a small metal charm the size of her thumbnail, which she identifies as an anti possession sigil.

Nothing is handwritten, there's no senders address, no note, no explanation. Nothing.

If it weren't for the antipossession charm and _Mitch_ _Chadwick_ , she'd be sure it was just a mix up.

But that's Dean Winchester, communication isn't his strongest suit.  
For whatever reason, Dean thinks she needs AnQuil so he sent it to her, _('_ _If ya bring home a dog I'll make sure it gets its shots and buy it kibble too.')_ Looks like Dean's sent her an accessory for her collar and something he thinks will keep her coat shiny. Trusts her to be smart enough or good enough at taking orders to take the tablets as directed.

She feels let down, out of sorts with the obtuse impersonal nature of the exchange. But really, what did she expect? a singing telegram and a bunch of flowers?

Popping one innocuous tablet out of its foil she places it on the work surface next to a mug, spoons in instant coffee and sugar, then sets the kettle to boil.  
Turns on the element under a frypan and splashed in some olive oil, letting it heat while she types the medications name into a Google search.

…

Dean wanders into the library next morning to finding Sam already up and enthroned at his laptop, coffee by his elbow.

"Mornin'."

"Mornin'." Sam doesn't look up, he's still frowning at the screen. "Hey, you, uh, you hear anything from Cas yet?"

Dean rubs the back of his neck "Mm. No. Still MIA."

Sam frowns and shakes his head "You think he's all right?" he asks looking as worried as Dean's starting to feel.

Dean stares into space for a moment "I don't know." Looks around "Where's Eileen?"

"She took off. Uh, said she's heading back to Ireland for a while. Just needs some time, I guess." Sam bites his lip and looks vaguely guilty. But really, the British dude's death was dumb luck. Accidents happen in their line of work, it's a fact of life. That said, it sucks.

"Mm. Yeah, I get that."

They sip their coffee contemplatively.

"Mm." Sam holds up a hand as if he remembered something, reaches for a moccasin wrapped bundle beside him and hands it over to his brother.

Dean opens it to reveal an old gun, the Colt.

"Ah." The elder hunter purrs examining the weapon, lifts the gun and sights down the barrel "Welcome back, sweetheart."

….

"Mum! Hey Mum! The pans burning!"

Michele realises there's smoke in the kitchen, belatedly stirred into action, she whisks the pan off the heat and jams the lid on before the oil catches flames. Blinks at her daughter.

"Mum, are you okay?"

Michele gathers her thoughts like a dazed wildebeest "Yeah, umm… I…" her eyes track to the medication boxes on the countertop and her jaw hardens as she sweeps all the contents back into the courier bag.

Her daughter peers at her concerned "Mum go lay down, I can cook. Honest! You look … grey."

"Oh umm…Thanks honey…. I just… Umm… use the other pan … don't forget to put oil in or it'll stick … brown the meat then add the sauce …."

"Mum! I know how to cook stir-fry. Go lie down or I'm calling Dad."

Michele makes her way numbly to her bedroom, drops the package into the bottom draw of her bedside cabinet and shuts the draw firmly.

AnQuil is an antipsychotic, one of the strongest on the market. Used to control "disturbing, socially unacceptable, sexual behaviour caused by mental illness."

Reading that, she been confused and stung, if that was Deans idea of a joke **it is not funny!**

But it got worse.

AnQuil is a controlled drug (how it got through customs she doesn't know) and that's for a good reason. It's associated with heart arhythmia, deep vein thrombosis, pulmonary embolism, strokes, heart, liver and kidney damage. It messes with blood pressure, increases destruction of red blood cells and has been implicated in more than a few patient deaths.

On a minor side note you're not even supposed to drive while taking it.

In short, when added to her current medications and issues, her friend Dean's sent her an anti-possession charm and four boxes of potential death  
….and she'd blithely been about to down one with her coffee.

 **...**

 **Authors note:** Thankyou muchly for your reviews ngregory, Celine, Ruby Slippers and Butterfly Alley (and congrats on your new arrival!)

We are off on a trip today and we won't be home for a few days, this is a shorter update I know, I know… but _please_ send reviews.


	74. Chapter 74 Chemical Properties

Chapter 74: Chemical properties

 **Chapter 74**

Sam found his brother in the man of Letters lab using his jury rigged electrical arc furnace. He'd constructed the thing out of the guts of an old microwave, the carbon rods out of a lantern battery, a few lengths of cable, some locking pliers and fire brick one afternoon, with all the effortless genius he applied to everything mechanical.

Right now, Dean was melting down small chunks of a blackened silver candlestick to make a batch of silver rounds. Sam lent against the door jamb watching his brother work with a small measure of his old childhood envy, sipping thoughtfully from the tumbler of whiskey he'd brought with him.

Despite the clumsy protective gloves and face shield, every move Dean made was surprisingly measured and precise, there were plenty of other moments when Dean was a klutz, but there was no sign of that now as he poured the glowing molten silver into each small well in the Petrobond mould, filling it exactly to the brim without overrunning a drop, faultlessly accurate.  
Comparatively, Sam knew he'd never manage the same level of control with the molten metal. Despite his best efforts in younger days he'd either over or under poured more than half of the plugs; eliciting nothing but irritation and scorn from his drill Sargent father, who always hovered critically over his shoulder during the process.  
Now he didn't even try, leaving that part of the job unquestioningly to Dean, despite how Dad had always harangued that he couldn't do just that. Irritably, Sam took another mouthful of whiskey and pushed old resentments away, reminding himself that Dad had done the same thing to Dean over research and that he and Dean had long ago found their own equilibrium, that it worked.

Dean set the filled moulds aside to cool and stripped off his protective gear, ran a hand through his now sweat spiked hair, turned and faced him, one eyebrow cocked questioningly.

"What's wrong Sam?"

Sam took his time mulling over the question, uncertain how to answer. There wasn't anything wrong exactly he just felt weirdly fragile, off balance and winded after the conversation with Michele but couldn't pin down why.

On one level it had been sort of laughable. Like he'd stepped into a particularly cheesy episode of full house or some other 80's family sitcom and found himself in the midst of one of those tooth rotting heart to heart moments. Like the ones that he and Dean had always rolled their eyes at, tossed things at the screen during, or heckled mercilessly.

"Sam? You're drinking the hard stuff at" Dean checked his watch "11am, hanging in the doorway with your face all..." His brother waved a hand widely and made an exaggerated scowly face

"So let's hear it W-h-a-t's w-r-o-n-g, did ya find some _even better_ news on Kelly. Discover there _is_ such a thing as a purple people eater, cos ones taken up residence under your bed. Or did Cas finally call, tell you he's been AWOL cos he eloped with Crowley? … lay it on me."

"No! … It's not… I just had a weird conversation with Michele…"

"Vision? or did it involve a wendigo and a slide? Cos, I wouldn't worry dude, turns out it was just a duck with a screwy name. Admittedly naming ducks and teaching them to go down slides is a bit freaky … just not really worth looking all…" Dean waved his hand again.

Everything Dean just spouted made next to no sense, Sam shot his brother a measured look and sniffed at the air cautiously wondering if the silver had been giving off some sort of fumes "Uh… Dean.. Maybe you need some air?" He suggests.

Dean grunts irritably "I don't need _air_ Sam! The Shire's answer to Mary Poppins does weird stuff. Says weird unsettling shit too apparently, cos it's driving my brother to drink."

"She's not driving me to drink!"

"Mmm hmm" Dean shot the glass in his hand a significant look and crossed his arms "so _this_ is a new health trip?"

"You're one to talk" Sam pushed off the door frame annoyed with his brother's hypocrisy. Dropped the glass to the work bench in disgusted denial, feeling droplets of whisky bounce out and splatter his shirt.

"Least I'm talkin'" Dean stepped closer, picked up the glass and downed the rest of it. Sam watched his eyes close languidly, his throat work as he swallowed.

Dean lowered the glass from his lips with a small huff of breath, looked at him challengingly with the corner of his mouth twitching up as he stepped closer still, pushing inside Sam's comfort zone almost aggressively.

"W-h-a-t's w-r-o-n-g S-a-m?" Dean enunciated slowly, his face only a foot away from his younger brothers.

At the wash of his breath hot, whisky soaked and far to close, Sam stepped back, turned his face away.

"Michele just … decided to give me some unsolicited advice about my sex life. It was weird okay?!" He cleared his throat uncomfortably, felt his cheeks heat.

Dean turned back to the work bench, busied himself with removing the cooled silver rounds from the Petrobond.

"What happened between you and Eileen?" Dean's question was surprisingly soft.

"W-what do you mean…?"

"The night we got back from getting our asses kicked by Dagon, think Mitch had a vision. She phased out, dropped the phone, called you an idiot. Don't think she meant for me to hear, but I did.  
Then when I asked, she told me it wasn't any of my business, that it wasn't hers either. Next morning Eileen's gone. Add in Mitch's unsolicited advice… It doesn't take a college education to figure it out Sam."

"N-nothing happened Dean."

Dean snorted "Nothing huh?"

"Eileen kissed me, it got heated, then I told her I-I couldn't. End of story."

"And what? Mrs Moral Majority told you to keep it in your pants?"

"No…. that's just it… It was pretty much the exact opposite!" Sam hunched his shoulders, pinched at the bridge of his nose and huffed, refused to look up as his brother gave a surprised bark of laughter.

"What exactly _did_ she say?"

"She said a lot of stuff… about Je-ss" Sam winced at the way his voice cracked "l-letting myself m-move on, how…" Sam stopped, feeling his throat lock up, his eyes burn unexpectedly.

Because she'd been so… _kind,_ even though _he_ was the reason Jess died, was to blame for so much; she'd been so _immovably gentle_ with everything she'd said, even when he'd snarled at her, said that it wasn't any of her goddamn business… Found now, that he didn't want to talk about or open up anymore of what she'd said up for Deans mockery.

So, when Dean finally spoke his words came as a surprise.

"Sammy… ya don't need to tell me.

But what I'm gonna say is, Mitch … she cares about you man … and maybe you oughta think about what she said.

Cos while she's one weird chick who spends her days luring ducks down slides at parks and would get eaten alive … by pretty much anything… she's also pretty smart about the stuff you and me quite frankly suck at."

Dean examined a Silver bullet closely and began polishing it.

"Now, you gonna help me load these Silver rounds or are you gonna start on the witch killers. Guess we oughta make some ammo for the Colt too…"

….

Much later, with the ammo restocked, Sam decides to go for a run and Dean takes the chance to call Michele.

"Hello Dean." The New Zealander's greeting was unusually reserved, her lips put on a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes as she fiddled with the cross, rings … and _**anti-possession charm**_ strung round her neck.

"Hey cool! Guess it got there." He enthused and gestured with a smirk, covering his unease at her cagey reception.

She looked down, dropped her hand away from the charm hastily.

"So, it _was_ you?" She asked in a quiet, colourless voice, it reminded him of how she'd sounded when she talked about dead babies and left him wondering if she'd had another vision.

"Mitch, you okay?"

She grimaced and looked down at her hands for a moment.

"Why did you send me that stuff?" She raised her eyes, unleashing one of her Puss in Boots looks at him.

Maybe she was freaked, thought the charm was a warning of imminent demonic invasion.

"It's _just_ a precaution Mitch, if I really thought you were gonna be dealing with any black-eyed bastards I'd suggest a tattoo. Being possessed ain't a thing I'd wish on you is all, that cross... it's pretty, but what they tell you in church an' horror movies… don't put your faith in it."

"And the pills?"

"Your visions are gonna kill you."

"So, what? You figure it's kinder to finish me off quickly." Her voice was barely over a whisper. "You may call me Sam's pet, _but don't think you have the right to take me to the vet and have me put down!"_

"Mitch what the fuck are you talking about huh? I don't want t' put you down!"

"AnQuil, that little care package of yours, what else am I supposed to think."

Man, there were moments … Dean clenched his jaw in irritation.

"Look, dunno why you've got your knickers in a knot.

Those pills, back when Sammy was getting visions I asked around, did some research. That sorta pills are supposed to block psychic abilities. I mean, yeah sure, they were developed for crazy people. But a surprising number of nut jobs are actually psychics with outta control powers. The pills I sent are strongest I could get. You _are_ actin' a bit nuts today."

"You're saying anti-psychotics block psychic powers? And what? You just asked for the strongest stuff they had?" She buried her face in her hands but some of the brittle tension bled out of her stance.

"He's and idiot." She muttered into her fingers, looked up and blew out a long breath "You're really good at killing monsters Dean, but you're an _unbelievably crap_ doctor and your communication skills… Require work.

Yes, AnQuil is the strongest anti-psychotic, it's used 'to control disturbing, socially unacceptable, sexual behaviour caused by mental illness.' They use it on sex offenders Dean!"

"Oh..." He could see how that info might make her a bit pissy with him. It didn't explain why she thought, he thought, she was some sort of sick animal he wanted to gank.

"In the medical journals, it's also linked with a bucket load of deaths of otherwise healthy patients. It's associated with heart arrhythmia, deep vein thrombosis, pulmonary embolism, strokes, heart, liver and kidney failure. It messes with blood pressure and increases the destruction of red blood cells. I'd say the only reason it hasn't been banned is because most of its target patients… are sex offenders and paedophiles... People don't shed many tears over them." She leant back in her chair and her eyes fluttered closed as she continued speaking "not to put too fine a point on it, but I'm not healthy. This thing, it is manageable… sort of.

But …"

His gut had been dropping with every new word in her medical lecture.

"You're sayin' those pills coulda killed you?!"

She opened her eyes and nodded, looked almost apologetic "Mmm hmm."

"Fuck! Seriously Mitch?! I'm sorry! I screwed up. Major time!"

"Yeah cos 'you know nothing Jon Snow'." She favoured him with a sardonic smile.

"Sooo not true, Jon knew howta make a chicks toes curl. That ain't nothing!"

She shook her head and laughed, just like he hoped she would.

"Dean Winchester you are nothing if not predictable! Stick to playing _that_ kind of doctor in future… _and not with me_."

Then her face sobered, she tilted her head and stared at him solemnly.

"I **trust** you Dean, the only reason I looked those drugs up before taking them was idle curiosity. Can I ask why you didn't discuss this with Sam? He probably doesn't have access to the medical journals I do, but even so…"

When he didn't answer her eyes narrowed.

"You didn't?! Oh, for heaven's sake … please tell me you didn't dose Sa-m with this stuff. Dean!? You didn't! …"

He kept silent.

"You did! And he didn't know? No of course he didn't! Because otherwise … Oh Dean!…" He winced at the _disappointment_ in her voice.

"Mitch… I know it was screwed up, alright. I didn't dose him for long, honest… It didn't stop the visions; cos Sammy wasn't a psychic... It was years ago, Mitch.

Are you gonna tell him?"

"Dean… did I tell you he was working with the British Men of Letters?" She sighed and brushed her hair back from her face "the answer is no, I just nagged him to tell you himself… and he did... _Eventually_.

What you did was a long time ago, and I get why you did it. He would too, I think.

I have to say, I wish you two would learn not to keep secrets from and lie to each other, there's _**never**_ been a situation where you've made things better for yourselves by doing that."

"You're going for a double on talks that drive Winchesters to drink sweetheart. Gotta say I'd rather I'd got Sammy's."

It was her turn to look uncomfortable.

He gave her a thousand-watt smile enjoying her discomfort "Why don't you ever tell _me_ to get laid, why's Sammy your favourite?"

"Dean… I doubt Sam took it as a mark of favouritism if, like you said it drove him to drink... " She sighed, screwed up her freckled nose and went all big eyed "Sam _has_ never offered to shoot me or accidentally tried to poison me."

"Owch!"

"But I still love you Dean Winchester. And you don't need my permission to get laid, your sex life isn't any of my business. That's some of what I told your brother. If I see anything like that, it won't change my regard for you and I'll never mention it unless your life's in danger okay? I'm … I'm really sorry for being so judgey."

Dean cleared his throat loudly "I'm gonna stop ya right there Mitch." He made a show of shuddering in distaste "I'm cryin' uncle, I don't want Sammy's lecture it has wayyy too many chickflick overtones and not nearly enough action.

I'm sorry I tried to poison you, there must be a anti-psychotic for people who talk like they've escaped from a hallmark movie we'll get you some of that."

"No."

"What d'ya mean, no?"

"I mean, please don't."

"Mitch com'on. We'll get you something safe, I'll research, get Sam to help me."

"No."

"Why the hell not… seriously Mitch?!"

"Two reasons, I don't think I'm a psychic, but mostly because I don't think I'm supposed to. And I don't want to be Jonah."

"Jonah?"

"Guy in the bible, he was a prophet, God told him to go to Nineveh with a message. He didn't want to, so he tried to run away, God sent a storm and a big fish…"

"That's a frickin kid's story Mitch."

"Why did the bible burn when Kelly put her hand on it with Lucifers child inside her, if it's just a book of made up stories? I saw that Dean.  
The bibles made of ink and paper, printed the same way as any other book, but it has POWER and it wouldn't have that power if it was a book of lies."

"Okay fine. But Cas said you're not a prophet! So even if that dude Jonah did get swallowed by a whale for not doing what he was told. It don't mean anything worse than _what's already happenin'_ is gonna happen to you if you take some pills and put a lid on the visions."

"What about you and Sam?"

"What about me and Sam?"

"What if I _do_ take the pills and they work and I miss a vision I'm supposed to have… and because of that you or Sam die?"

"We can look after ourselves!"

"Or you don't find Kelly in time and Dagon uses her son as a weapon to do something awful."

"It's not your job to save the world."

"True, but it's not yours either.  
We all make choices Dean, we all decide what we do with what we're given. There's a parable Jesus told – also in the bible. The parable of the talents, it's the story of how a master gives his three servants 'talents,' uh money, to look after when he goes away on a journey. Two put the money to work and invest it… one buries it in a hole in the ground. The master comes back…"

"Yeah, I've read the bible…

Don't be like one of those whack jobs on the news that refuse a transfusion cos of some obscure scripture, Mitch"

"Do you see me refusing transfusions? I'm the blood banks most grateful supporter Dean. Though… that scripture 'the life of a creature is in the blood' when you apply it to Azazel and Sam or that demon cure… or blood magic in general …" she blinked slowly "'there's power in the blood' to quote the old song." Her voice was thoughtful almost serene "So many cultures…shed blood… it's a reoccurring theme… I wonder..."

"Whatever you're thinking stop right now!" He barked at the screen hands clenched hard on the laptops plastic housing.

She blinked at him in surprise "What?! It's just interesting… like the fact silver's got antibacterial qualities and the highest electrical and thermal conductivity of any metal, I often wonder whether that's why it effects supernatural entities."

"You're a geek!"

"Mmm hmm, dunno why that surprises you, I've got the glasses to prove it. Look Dean I better get going I'm supposed to be packing. And I have my Mums birthday cake to ice."

"What? Why do you need to pack?"

"We're going up north tomorrow for a week. Staying with my in-laws, hubby's putting an alarm system in his sister's new house up there; and no matter how loud I object, me and Johnny have to go too." She suddenly looked downright miserable, her hand crept up to grip the little cross strung round her neck like she was looking for comfort.

"You don't like your in-laws?"

"I don't think _they_ like me much," she dropped her head "I mean I get it, lots of people think I'm an annoying little goody two shoes, and I'm the world's worst brood mare … and then after Johnny was born I gave up my career … ." She shrugged "My in-laws are sceptical about the whole autism thing to say the least, think it's all because I spoil him. They don't believe there's anything wrong with him that a damn good hiding wouldn't fix, and Phil's Dad is more than willing to dole it out if he's given any excuse. It's just… tense… and I feel like I'm walking on egg shells with them.  
But hey! it's just life, we all go through it.

Like I told Sam, I won't have wifi up there, just my phone data and I'll be trying to save it, so I won't be round much.

But, I'll let you know if I have any visions."

She still looked small and miserable, suddenly he wished he could hug her or something.

"You're a good Mum, it'll be okay." He offered.

She straightened her shoulders, nodded and lifted her chin. A faint smile ghosted her lips.

"Yeah, I know. Now I have to go and ice that carrot cake."

"Putting vegetables in a cake you're a frickin' sadist Mitch." He scoffed.

"Yes, I'm _very cruel._ making my mother her favourite cake for her birthday. Not everyone can send deadly drugs as a way of showing they care." She logged off before he could argue.


	75. Chapter 75: If you're gone

Chapter 75: If you're gone

 **Chapter 75**

Michele turned the mixer off and examined the new icing, she'd been going for a soft feminine pastel purple... but Mr 2 had been 'helping' at the critical moment and the resulting icing was a rather shocking deep navy blue.

The woman removed her glasses and knuckled her eyes taking a few deep breaths and fought the urge to scream in frustration; the way she was going her mother's birthday cake was going to look like a bad piece of abstract art.

First the pink cream cheese icing decided not to hold it's shape; and by the time she'd gotten halfway around the cake piping a ring of roses, the first had transformed into a blobby pink mess, followed in quick succession by all the others.

Now, this second batch of icing looked like it would hold up okay, but it didn't exactly scream loving mother's 64th birthday and would probably stain everyone's teeth permanently blue.

Disappointment and frustration flared sharp in her chest.

There were so many moments lately where it was obvious that things are getting flakey round the edges.

Usually she enjoyed this, spends a week mentally planning and multiple hours creating a birthday cake for one of her family.

Now, she is just going through the motions, trying to tick the boxes and not let on that she is barely keeping it together.

With a weary sigh she smoothed the pink icing into a half moon shape and loaded the **blue** into a piping-bag to make a second attempt on the accursed roses.

…

"Is that Omas birthday cake?" A small voice piped from behind her.

Michele nodded without looking up as her oldest son wandered in (he'd been hiding from the sound of the mixer, but apparently the lure of the icing bowl had drawn him out, now all is quiet) he hovers silently in the doorway watching her add a few green leaves around the roses.

"The roses were supposed to be purple, but Chris _helped,_ and I tipped in wayy too much blue, so navy it is."

"I like blue, blue's better than purple." Her son states in his 'these are the facts' voice, continues watching. Johnny has always had a way of watching that makes her feel like she's pinned at the centre of his universe and her tiniest motions are weighted with revelation.

"Oma's really old, isn't she?"

"We've discussed this, we don't say people, _especially girls_ , are really old to their faces… even if we think they are, okay?" She reminds softly, because she is his navigator and knows not everyone appreciates the truth as Johnny Chadwick dispenses it.

"I remember." Her son frowned "but 64 _is_ _**really**_ old. Eight times what I am."

"Mmm hmm, Oma's age is the square of yours." Her child sees those patterns, finds joy in them.

"And…. It's done." Michele leans back and surveys the finished cake critically "I guess it'll do. Where's my phone? Better get photographic evidence in case it melts, or we drop it on the way to the car."

"So… you don't _need_ the rest of the icing?" Her son asks hopefully as his eyes dial themselves all the way up to 'Awwww how could you possibly say no to this face.'  
Heaven help her.

What was that parenting curse? "May you be blessed with a child just like you." Now she's seen herself through someone else's eyes she can concede she's got exactly what she deserves.

She took four teaspoons and scooped some of the pink icing onto each _('leftovers of the blue are getting washed down the drain so don't even ask kiddo.')_

"Take eat, my child. This is a tithe of icing, given for you and for your siblings also. Verily I say, taste and see that thy mother is good." She declares in ponderous religious tones as if she were handing out communion and handed over the spoons. "One spoon for each of you. Jen, Vic, Chris and you." She finishes more seriously.

The mother ruffled her son's hair and sent him off, then picked up her phone to take photos; saw a message on Skype from Peaches (unlike Sam and Dean, Peaches knew the small secret that just because she looked like she was off line it didn't mean she always was.)

"My entire creative writing class think there's something wrong with me."

The little message was plaintive and made Michele sigh.  
Sure, she could see how some people _might_ find the incongruity of Peaches and her work disturbing, if they didn't bother to get to know her. People that age were so often cliquey, dumb and just plain mean. Peaches was an amazing kid, it took a while to breach her surface, but if you weren't intimidated by how smart she was and got past her shyness (because she was shy) the dividends were huge.

The story Peaches had written recently, called "Curiosity" was probably to blame.

It _was_ pretty horrifying, the slow slide of a naive young girl into the ice-cold orbit of the boy next door. A boy who kills her pet cat 'out of curiosity' then he moves away.

Years later the girl meets the boy, now a young man, again… _It was not a love story_ , though the boy next door had definitely remembered her through the years. It _was_ a really unsettling and awful story … and amazing for all that, like most of what Peaches wrote.

"Some people distill their darkness and pour it into fiction where it does no harm and acts as important cautionary tales. Others dilute it and pour it into the world in the form of general bitchiness. They're just jealous because your writing makes them look bad in comparison." She typed by way of a reply.

"I like exploring the workings of deranged minds, horror and creepiness." Michele could almost image her friend's defensive look as she wrote that.

"I know sweetness. But not because you're a potential serial killer! Smart people like to explore, to try understand things both inside and outside of ourselves, that's all… of course I _do_ wish your writing had a few more puppies and M &Ms, a bit more balance..?"

She didn't want Peaches to change, but she knew a little more light and a bit less shadow in her class writing might help.

"Fluff isn't toxic in small doses. That said don't change who you are or what you write for a bunch of Mills and Boon wanna be writers."

"I got Dean to spoil Sam ice cream a few chapters ago."

"Yes, you did!" Michele smiled as she typed, she'd felt an odd satisfaction in reading that chapter.

Sometimes that was all she wanted, to take those two boys and feed them ice cream and watch them laugh with no worries on their shoulders for 5 minutes.  
Her last conversations with both Winchesters had been... rather… uncomfortable for all concerned.

Too often she added to their worries.

To say she wasn't looking forward to the trip away was a massive understatement (the hospital was an hour away if she needed a transfusion, she'd be in enemy territory and the thought of standing between her (control freak with anger issues) father in law and her traumatised autistic child for a _whole week_ without nuking that entire relationship made her feel sick) but maybe the Winchesters could do with space from her. Life was what it was, she could only hope to exercise acceptance and look for a silver lining.

"Speaking of desert, do you think my Mum will like her birthday cake?" Michele sent a photo through.

"Cool blue"

"Yes, if one of the kids get carsick on our journey north after eating a slice, it will look REALLY cool on the upholstery. Mr 2 'helped' - there's like half a bottle of food colouring in those roses."

"I have images of a car full of blue kid puke now, thanks for that."

Michele laughed and considered threatening to send photos, if blue kid puke did eventuate.  
Then noticed she'd missed a call. Frowned in confusion at the caller ID, which said the call had hailed from London, England, United Kingdom.

There was no voice mail message, so it _had_ to be a wrong number or a scam like those ones going around a while back from India, they claimed to be from Microsoft "ringing about error messages her PC was sending... and if she just followed their simple instructions to give them remote access of her PC…." Seriously?! She might be a tech idiot but even she hadn't been dumb enough to fall for that.

"Do you ever get scam calls on your cells there?"

"Sometimes, it's usually home phones though. What was their spiel?"

"I missed it, apparently the call was from London, England. I don't know anyone there. So, I'm thinking either it was a wrong number or scammers in the UK are branching out."

"Orrr :-p

Maybe it's an over enthusiastic fic fan. I keep telling you, you shouldn't put so much of yourself into your story. It's not safe."

It was hilarious, if the idiots in Peaches writing course saw how often Peaches worried about the cyber safety of a grown woman on the other side of the world, they'd get what a sweetheart she really was.

"Nope, I do have some readers there (all hail the mighty traffic graph) but for some reason (barring my lovely Cat,) only Americans bother to review my drivel. I have a theory that it's because America is such a world super power - you're all just more confident and opinionated because of it. Of course, the supernatural books are American, so there's that."

"I have it…." Peaches drew it out.

"The call was actually from the British Men of Letters, they've tracked you down and want your advice on werewolf vaccines. Go on, write it into your fic and Dance on those shattered pieces of your fourth wall."

"Fourth Wall?"

"The barrier between fiction and real life."

"There's a barrier?" Michele smiled sarcastically at her phone as she typed, since she'd met Sam and Dean she really had her doubts.

"For normal people."

 _('Yes, and I'm sooo not normal anymore')_ the New Zealander thought silently as another message popped up.

"Sometimes reading your stuff is like an epic case of déjà vu. I'm never sure whether what we talk about is going to end up in your fic. But that's what's so cool, I loved how you managed to work in the thing with the duck, that was cute..."

"I just wish I'd taken a photo or video of it, it _was_ epic."

"Believe me, truth is stranger than fiction Peachy girl. Ugh I better get moving! I've got Sooo much to do before we leave… and guess what?"

"What?"

"Apparently, adding to the fun, we are going to be driving right into cyclone Cook. It's supposed to be gale force winds, torrential rain and flooding… I don't suppose I'll be lucky enough to be saved from the in-laws by it though."

"Don't drown, please. And drive safe."

"Goodbye…And remember fair maiden, if you should need us, yes should you need us, for any reason at all…"

"Us?"

"Well you know I do come as part of a set, buy one, get four kids and a husband for free… but in this case I was quoting the end scene of the labyrinth. I loved that movie. Your line is 'I don't know why but, every now and again in my life – for no reason at all… I need you.' -Holds up hand- Hush.. please don't don't burst my bubble, I can dream it's true."

"Every now and again… it is."

"Love you kiddo! Don't you dare stop doing your own amazing thing and being the writer you are meant to be, Okay? Steven King, Edgar Alan Poe and H. P Lovecraft probably have/had the same issues. -hugs-

Like I tell Johnny, never make yourself less to fit other's expectations. Blind them with your brilliance! Cya"

…

Sam Winchester sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before raking his hair back once more and continuing rifling through the war era file boxes.  
He was positive he'd seen it in here somewhere, back when they'd been looking for a way to neutralise The Darkness. A file folder labelled Diabolic Princes.

Grinding his palms over gritty eyes he tried to tell himself the burning was due to dust in the hardly used store room; but knew it wasn't.  
He'd been up all-night reading tomes on Demons, trying to find a way to track Dagon, trying to do anything really, as long as it kept him awake.

Nightmares, they were something no hunter could avoid or slay, and Sam was no stranger to them. Lucifer had given him enough fuel to last 1000 normal men a hundred lifetimes.  
He always thought he should be immune, that he should have hardened up by now.  
Like catastrophic injury his body should shut down the ability to feel it after a while …. But he wasn't immune, and he hadn't hardened up.

It wasn't even as if these dreams were anything new. He'd seen Jess burn on the ceiling a million times, Mom and Dean too. You'd think he'd grow numb… But somehow It-never-stopped-.  
Lucifer had had a special fondness for re-enacting that horror over and over, twisting it, screwing every last drop of anguish from his cage mate. Lucifer had swapped out the faces, but the script remained surprisingly unchanged.  
A small part of Sam had wondered, much later, if the arc angel for all his overwhelming power … simply lacked real imagination. It was true that none of Lucifer's torments had actually _surprised him_ with their inventiveness or had been outside what Sam could imagine _(-only those moments when Lucifer had revealed his true face.-)_  
…Sam physically flinched at _that_ thought his traitor mind chose to vomit up…  
Preferable even to think about that first time, when he'd watched Lucifer pin Dean to the cage's ceiling, rip him open, felt his brother's hot blood splatter down over his upturned face while Lucifer mocked his in-ability _to do anything_ but watch… How Dean's wide green eyes had never left his as he finally burned screaming above. That first time he'd _believed_ it was real, that somehow his brother had found a way to join him, had been trying to rescue him.

Sam pushed the thought, the memories of that soul deep panic away.  
They called Lucifer father of lies for a reason, even in his dreams Lucifer lied.  
He'll never use Sam's hands to hurt Dean or anyone else again. Azazel is dead, noone else would burn on the ceiling because of his schemes in Lucifers name.

Jess is safe in heaven. Mom is on a hunt in Texas, not safe exactly but… doing what she wants.  
Sam isn't sure if they _truely_ wouldn't want him to blame himself, if they _would_ want him to be happy like Michele told him over and over. But maybe… Mom had said the reason she was working with the Men of Letters was towards that goal, a world free of monsters, normal lives for them all.

Thing is, he has doubts if he will ever be _fit_ to lead a normal life now.

He had _seen_ Lucifer sent back to the cage, and can feel nothing but frustration that his sleeping self _**still**_ replays these things over and over. That he can't just push it down, without it leaking out and staining everything else.

So, no, the dreams were nothing new, but recently they seem rawer. He wonders if it is because of Kelly's child. A chilling unknown factor. Father's or mother's son?

Tonight, or he guessed it was probably last night now, he just hadn't been able to face the dreams. Especially if like last time, near the end … just before the flames obscured everything… the face, the eyes that looked down into his from the ceiling _changed_ , became softer edged, less sculpted, eyes more innocent and a darker green than Deans, filling him with shocked recognition.

He'd lurched awake wiping at his face frantically, sleep addled brain expecting to see blood on his hands. Blood always blood.

Which is how he came to be here, searching for a half remembered file folder in a room full of boxes after a night of no sleep. Because it was better than attempting sleep and facing dreams.  
Or even, making himself NOT stare at the Skype app on his laptop screen, far too aware of an absence that shouldn't bother him, but … did.

It was stupid, just like a stray cat he'd somehow let in and fed; Michele had made herself at home in his life and he'd gotten used to her sharing his space, getting into his business and simply being there, slightly underfoot, as if she had a God given right.  
Now she was away, off about her own business (again like a cat) and her absence was like the space left by a missing tooth, one he kept unconsciously probing.

It had been two days, two days since she sent him and Dean both that email full of road trip photos. A giant 1,940-foot-high carrot (growing carrots was the towns claim to fame, apparently.) A massive rain boot constructed of roofing tin in another small town, where folk got together once a year and threw the things competively. A town called Bulls with cow statues and weird Bull puns signposted all over (there was a photo of the police station and its sign "Const-a-Bull.") Fields full of sheep and her kids posing on top of an army tank at 'war museum' along the way. Two days since she'd described driving into that cyclone, an offhand satire commentary that reminded him of her emails in the early days.

Two days wasn't that long, and it wasn't like she was in any danger (he'd checked the news websites, the cyclone had only caused property damage and nothing news worthy in her inlaws town.) Really, he had no reason to be ****** at her absence (he wasn't even sure he had a word for how he felt), he often didn't talk to her for days while they were out on a case. But he'd always known he could…

Sam dropped another box onto the pile at his feet and huffed in self derision, opened yet another box.  
And there it was, the reason for his search "Diabolic Princes."  
Opening the Manila folder, he flipped through the pages looking for any mention of Dagon. Nothing leapt out, but he'd go through it carefully.

Heading back down the hallway towards the library he heard Deans voice and Cas's name, it sounded like Dean was leaving yet another message.

"Come on. Cas, it's me. I've been trying to get ahold of you for days. I don't know what's going on, but we got a line on Dagon...And we got our asses handed to us, even with the Colt. So... could really use the backup. Call me back." Deans voice rumbled from the other side of the war room as he approached.

Sam studied his brother's slumped shoulders "So no luck with Cas, huh?"

"Yeah, still AWOL." Dean looked away and seated himself at the map table, pulled his gun cleaning kit in front of him.

"All right, so let's find him." Sam sat at his laptop. It had been long enough.

"I've been trying, Sam." His brother gave him an annoyed look "The GPS on his phone is turned off, and there's nothing in the system about some weird guy in a trench coat getting arrested. Or turning up dead." Dean looked away, slid the gun from its holster under the map table and turned his attention towards cleaning it.

"Right..." Sam sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. It occurred to him watching Dean, that Cas being missing and both their worry over him, might be contributing to his own messed up state of mind recently.  
"Dean, it's Cas. I mean, this isn't the first time he's dropped off the map, you know? And whatever's happening, he'll be fine. He always is…" he tried a smile that felt more like a grimace.

"Yeah." Dean didn't sound any more convinced by his words than Sam was.

Sam watched his own fingers tap nervously on the tabletop, tried to still them as Dean continued cleaning the gun, his movements sharp and jerky as he tried to repress and deny his agitation.  
Cas has always survived true, but he'd dug himself some pretty big holes.

"What 'bout you? You got anything there, reading rainbow?"

"I stayed up all night, going through every book we have on demons. And it turns out we have _a lot of books on demons."_

"Anything on Dagon?"

"Mentions here and there, but nothing we can use. I guess the, uh, Princes of Hell are pretty good at staying off the radar." He smiled and raised his eyebrows at his brother.

"Well, yeah, isn't that kind of their thing?"

It sure seemed that way.

The laptop chimed, and a notification popped up

"Hmm. Just got an e-mail from Mick... It's a case."

"Good!"

It was probably what they both needed to take their minds off things.

"Looks like a guy named Jarrod Hayes disappeared in Tomahawk, Wisconsin, a week ago. No witnesses. No body. But Mick says this place has a history."

"Meaning?"

Sam opened the attachments on Micks email.

"Well, it means a lot of people go missing in Tomahawk, one a year, every year, from 1898 to 1997, and then nothing until now."

"So, 20 years?" Some of Dean's agitation had dropped away, working the case in front of them, it gave them a focus and a plan.

"Yeah. So maybe they're starting up again? Maybe it's a cycle of some sort?"

"Well...One way to find out…"

It was almost a relief to send Mick a reply and say they were on it.


	76. Chapter 76: Lead me not into temptation

Chapter 76: Lead me not into temptation

 **Chapter 76**

Michele turned a worried gaze onto her eldest son as he sat curled in the corner of the room staring intently at his iPad, sighing she stroked her hand through her sleeping two-year old's shaggy mop.

 _('Three more days, we can hold it together for three more days')_ she told herself.

She's not really convinced, feels exhausted, like she either wants to cry or hit something. Wants to go home!

She's spent the past four days trying to tell herself she's being over-sensitive, only imagining the unsubtle exclusion of her and her sons. Or that her in-laws just don't know how to handle their 'different' grandsons. Trying to be the calm anchor her autistic son needs, while internally simmering with resentment, praying for strength and holding on with white knuckles to the Christian virtues she's supposed to stand for.

Her in-laws have taken the twins and their 3 girl cousins out for ice-cream, they decided to do it while Mr 2 was napping, which meant Michele couldn't go…. And because his mother couldn't go, the 8-year-old had also been unwilling to go.

After the previous Christmas, when his grandfather had loomed over the boy screaming at him, drawing back to hit the boy for some minor infraction (Michele had forced herself between the man and child and taken the cowering boy to time out, stopping things from devolving further, and giving mother and son a chance to recover from the shock.) Michele couldn't blame the kid.

She'll admit in the silence of her own head that she's relieved, doesn't want her son out of her sight and doesn't really trust her in-laws, even in public.  
The Christmas incident had blindsided her, the boy hadn't earned the bizarre over-reaction. She'd _never_ seen them respond like that to any of their other grandchildren's _often worse_ behavior.  
Her husband's parents have always been amazing grandparents to her twin stepdaughters, have _never_ so much as raised their voices to the girls (even when fallen angel one and two deserved it.) They spoil them rotten constantly and act as if Michele's loving discipline is excessive. Which is mostly okay, great even in some ways, every kid should have doting grandparents.

That's the thing, _every kid should_... that's what's so unfair! Her son is so fragile now, overwhelmed by internal battles, anxieties and fears, he struggles so hard just to navigate in the world… if any kid _needs_ a dose of unreserved love and acceptance, it's him.

Bewilderingly there appears to be two sets of standards in the family she married into.  
Either because there's a weird sexism at work, or because this particular boy is _hers_. They dote on their daughter and all their granddaughters and let them get away with any and everything they want, but she's come to realize, after examination, that the leniency doesn't extend to boys, specifically their autistic grandson.  
Now she's looking, she sees echoes of something similar in her husband's relationship with his parents as well.  
She used to joke her husband suffers from forgotten middle child syndrome, now she wonders if this sex-based bias is the real root of his insecurities, striving to please authority figures and his slightly clingy neediness.

Ohhh she knows she can't talk, what did that one book reviewer say scathingly about the Supernatural fans? "Most of them have Daddy issues."  
Michele's a pragmatist, if the shoe fits…  
 _Her_ father is a bully, one who is impossible to please, that never had qualms over whacking his kids, back when it was legal, and she was growing up.  
 _(But not anymore, he's restricted himself to emotional manipulation, verbal abuse and bluster since she was 14 and prayers were answered.)  
_ Thing is her father's never played favorites (he's pretty much a prick to everyone.) His rules with her and her brother growing up were excessive, unreasonable and sometimes downright harsh. He barely tolerates _all_ of his grand-kids; but he knows he doesn't have the right to hit them.  
Her own father's assbutt-ery is just part of his narcissistic, self-absorbed (possibly Asperger) personality and that makes it hurtful, but also sort of impersonal, applicable to everyone.

In her pocket her phone buzzes.

An email. It's from Nic "The smartest kid in the room."  
They'd been sending emails back and forth over the last few days of her 'exile to the flooded north, land of evil in-laws.' Yesterday she'd sent her friend an email congratulating her on landing a new job (yay!) and outlining her slave labor and epic battle with the evil spider hoard. (She'd been tasked with cleaning the windows of the rental house her sister-in-law was moving out of) being a _lovely friend_ she had even attached a photo of one particularly large, hairy specimen for Nic's viewing horror (hadn't actually mentioned that New Zealand only had one poisonous spider… that lived in sand dunes and was both tiny and endangered… so her heroic spider battling held no risk of personal injury, just a lot of "Ugh! Please don't fall in my hair.")

Resultantly, her most loyal reviewer was suitably impressed by her do-daring bravery against the spider hoard. Nic also mentioned that her birthday was approaching soon and could her favourite ficwriter perhaps… include some wet Dean in one of her next chapters, please, pretty pretty please.

Michele stared at the email uncertain what her friend was actually requesting, but felt beyond certain that neither she or Dean wanted to be a part of production of any chapter containing "wet Dean" … Actually, neither did her poor fic-friend Cougar, who got to listen to her have a minor breakdown every-time a chapter threw up something that was, as the AO3 writer put it, (both exasperated and indulgently amused at the New Zealander's whining) 'barely smutt adjacent.'

The thing was, Michele liked Nic she was and had been a really good friend, (and her reviews were gold.) It was a pressure valve, swapping messages with her fic-friends during her 'Exile to the flooded North' being able to talk about the indignities she was suffering at the hands of 'the Evil in-laws.'

A big part of her just _really_ wanted to indulge Nic's request… but how did she do that when she was forced to write _only_ the truth, only what she saw and actually happened?

….

The house phone began ringing and Michele left off pondering fan-service and the suckery of writing Winchester Gospels. Went to answer it, hoping it might be her husband or the sister-in-law.

…..

"Hello Chadwick residence, Michele Chadwick speaking."

"Can I speak to Raymond Chadwick please?" the voice on the other end requested.

"Ummm they're out, I can take a message and get him to call you when he gets back."

"Yes.. the sooner the better. Or, is there some way of contacting him? It's very important. Regarding an urgent bone-scan Mr Chadwick has been referred for. We have an appointment available Thursday, due to a cancellation. We need a reply within the hour, or the slot will be given to the next most urgent patient on the list."

She blinked "Yes, Uhm please give me the details… I'll … I'll chase him down and get him to call as soon as possible."

Michele hung up the phone feeling a little sick.

Her father-in-law needed an urgent bone scan?! Michele closed her eyes with a wince.  
A bone scan was used to check if cancer had metastasized, Michele knew that … she'd been with her friend Nic through all of that, ( _ **the other Nic,**_ her dear friend whose slow spiraling death would now, forever, haunt Michele's birthday.) The memory of holding her too thin, worn brittle friend in a helpless hug, while sobs racked them both, when the news came, that the last bone scan had given Nic a ticking clock and little hope. Those memories were close, as she began the urgent task of tracking down her father-in-law to hand on the message.

….

The older generation was totally maddening at times, why they owned cell phones but didn't bother carrying or charging them was one of life's most irritating mysteries.  
Her daughters had used up their phone credit and none of her nieces answered. Her husband had left his phone behind that morning, and her sister-in-law's phone was probably in a box packed for the move… and of course her husband had the car…

….

Finally,… finally she ended up calling the ice-cream place direct and wheedled the boy that answered into finding and letting her speak to her father-in-law.  
Who took the details and said he'd call the hospital back immediately. Then, asked tersely if she'd said anything to anyone else, ordered her not to, and hung up.

…

All that morning and the rest of the day Michele kept her silence, wanting to talk to her husband about what she now knew, wanting to ask questions, waiting for her in-laws to say something, anything, but received nothing but forbidding looks. So held her peace.

At some point a horrible thought hit her, a question, an accusation. It slowly loomed larger in her mind as the hours ticked by, a sinking feeling of guilt that sat in her gut like an acid fist.

Because, despite attempts not to, Michele knew she had bordered on _hating_ her father-in-law since that awful Christmas.  
She'd been careful, to never to pray for the man to come to harm (she'd never do that again, not since she was 14, and sure her father would lose it and really hurt her one day soon) never asked … But … people who hurt her, threatened her, might lead her away from what was right … Bad stuff just _happened_ to them.

Her father, a spate of bullies at school, that weird kid that had befriended her and went on and on about witchcraft, the first guy she'd kissed who broke her 11 year old heart by kissing some other girl the next day, her brothers Uni friend that took a shine to her and kept offering to score her some drugs and expand her mind, a university lecturer that had it in for her, the really cute guy whom it turned out thought dating a girl meant he was _entitled_ to sex and had boasted to his friends that he intended to collect from _her_ on the next date, a date that never happened because a bizarre accident happened first.

She'd spent years denying it, telling herself that it was all just a string of weird coincidences … Things happened, and they meant nothing (she was a scientist) and maybe she would have kept believing that … Except for the fact that she now found herself conscripted to the very unenviable job of God's Ghost writer, a friend to two men who spent their days tracking and killing rogue mythical creatures.  
Ignoring and writing off a world that was unexplainable with science had gotten HARD lately.

Sam might say God didn't care, that He never answered prayers or bothered with His creation … but all her life Michele had felt it...  
Listened to by a protective presence, shielded against harm, steadied by a hand that turned her away from darkness.

She'd been the little girl, all of three who desperately wanted a bunny rabbit after a trip to the zoo, couldn't eat or sleep from the power of that childish longing. Her Mother always shakes her head now, telling the story of how Frisky the white rabbit came, she walked out the front door the next day and found her, just sitting on lawn. "When Michele prays, God listens" her mother would finish with a shrug.  
She had been the child standing on her parent's drought-stricken farm, who had raised her face with a childish prayer on her lips, then danced. Twirling and laughing in the replying rain, the drops falling on her cheeks like kisses.  
She'd been the teenager with a leg broken in three places after a fall from her horse, that had crawled leading her horse and praying for help, for whom help came, in the shape of a stranger on a chestnut horse no one else saw.  
She'd been that student who had sat on a hill and prayed for a city (the minister at her church had preached on intercession and she'd felt called by the scripture in Nehemiah. Thought she could change the world) and had _seen_ crime statistics drop (then rise again after she finished university and moved away ….)  
She'd been that young woman at a crossroads in her life, praying for proof that her life had a point; who had cupped a very dead fly in her closed palms feeling like an idiot, breathed one soft breath over the tiny desiccated corpse and watched wide eyed as the insect had twitched, found its feet, then flown free.

As she grew older she'd told herself again and again it was her imagination, had turned her face away from those moments … scared, had shoved them deep. Doubted the memories were as she had perceived and made up possible explanations to explain them away.  
Because she believed in miracles, she believed that God loved her, would always keep her safe… but she also _didn't want to.  
_ Because if she accepted the miracles she had to accept the burden of the guilt for those hurt people, who often weren't really evil, even if they weren't always _nice_.

… Besides, she'd _also_ been the woman who had watched her best friend die of cancer despite all her attempts to recreate that moment with the fly, all her begging and prayers (wasn't a fellow mother and friend worthier of life than a stupid fly?) She was _also_ the woman who laid her first precious son in the dirt and never got to see him open his eyes, or take a breath or laugh. _Also_ the mother of another boy, the smartest most beautiful child in the world, that had shattered into a million pieces when he went out into the world and she couldn't protect or fix him, no matter how fervent her prayers.  
What were miracles worth if they didn't save those you loved, what were miracles worth if they only cared about keeping _you_ safe, when all you loved broke and slid through your hands. She never wanted to be protected like that, to watch others get hurt so she could be safe. To live with that guilt.  
So, she told herself they were just coincidences. _**And they could be damn it!**_

She wasn't special or worthy ~ just one soul in a sea of souls that hoped and prayed and tried to do their best with the time they had on earth.


	77. Chapter 77: Not written by CS Lewis

Chapter 77: Not written by C.S Lewis

 **Chapter 77**

Michele stifled a whimper and dragged out her phone, staring at the screen with pain squinted eyes silently hoping and praying one of her fic-friends would log on.  
Begging for some other solution.  
She stared at Sam's name with acidic nerves, wanting to turn tail and run …. find another way, but she's running out of time and out of other options, can't afford to end up with a nose bleed that won't stop, to end up in hospital and risk her in-laws being in charge of her son.

All because she hasn't posted a chapter _._

 _('I_ _ **can't**_ _post it, it's_ _ **not**_ _that I_ _ **don't**_ _ **want**_ _ **to!  
**_ _Damn one-horse town, damn cyclone, damn Easter long weekend.')_

She's always uses a PC to post her chapters, used the PC at the tiny town public library to post the last one and didn't expect to need to publish another so soon.  
But the library is closed for the four-day Easter weekend and while she was confident Cougar, Peaches or Cat could and would post the chapter for her if she could ask, they are conspicuous in their absence.  
Today circumstances were conspiring in the worst possible way.

Which left Sam _ **….**_

 _ **('Whatever you are, can't you see I've tried to post it! BUT I CAN'T. Please.. please… Can't you just give me a break….')**_

She shouts the words silently in her head.

 _ **('Please…**_ _just_ _ **please!…. I can't ask this of him… Don't you get it's too much? Asking him to participate in his own exploitation, he can't even bare to read it… asking him to POST it, it's just wrong.')**_

But her internal wail falls on deaf ears… and maybe she's sort of lying to herself… the chapter in question isn't about Sam or even Dean. It's about her… her in-laws… her past, guilt's, fears, insecurities… her not normal-ness.  
Things she hardly has courage to ponder, examine or express, all spelled out in black and white.  
And it scares her, she's afraid of what it means now it's all written out like that. Doesn't want Sam to read it then look at her with pity or suspicion…

Not this week, while she's dealing with her in-laws: knowing _one more thing_ she shouldn't and is expected to keep _**that**_ secret from her husband as well…

The pain ratchets up a notch in her skull, halts her thoughts and spurs her to click on Sam's name.

"Hi Sam." She says the words softly in deference to her pounding skull and he looks at her from the other side of the world with a mile-wide smile, all white teeth, dimples and slanted eyes that light up like a happy retriever puppy.

That look -just happy to see her- it warms her, after so much time as persona non-grata; it's like Johnny's smile when he sees her at the end of each school day  
( _and oh!_ _how can this man not know he's beautiful?)_

It also makes her feel unworthy, she's not here for him, only here at all because he's her call of last resort.

"Hey Michele, is everything okay?" He puts down the iPad he's probably been using for research and gives her his full attention.

She's at a loss on how to answer.

"No, n-o visions…." She stammers quietly, feeling each word like a dagger of glass grating inside her skull. Still feeling the urge to run. Takes a breath. _('What if he says no?')_

"Sam I… I need your help, and I…know it's a big ask …" she narrows her eyes against the dim light from the phone cradled in her hands again, tries to collect her thoughts enough to put words together "I wouldn't ask if I could think of any other way… _but I can't_ "

He frowns at that.  
"Sure, what do you need." Looks at her earnestly, willing to help. Those small lines that pinch his brow remind her fleetingly of a wifi symbol as she gathers her courage.

"I… I need you to h-Help me… post a chapter of my fic..." she rushes the final words and turns her eyes away from his image on the small screen feeling like she's betraying him.  
"... _please_ …" the last word is a lorn whisper as she feels the all-to-familiar wet heat slide down her top lip and tastes the metallic bloom of blood in her mouth. Raises a trembling hand to wipe it away.

Looks down at the phone in her hand, at Sam's surprised eyes staring back. Waits for him to tell her to go to hell.

But he doesn't. Because he's a good man, someone who has spent most of his life trying to save others and never puts himself first. And she hates that, but she's grateful.

….

As Sam logs in to the fanfiction website using Michele's details, it strikes him how easy it would be now, to delete every word she'd ever written about them.  
Glances guiltily at her pain clenched face from behind the fall of his hair; then abruptly turns his eyes back to what he's doing, stops himself from staring at the blood on her lips and the wadded fistful of stained tissue in her hand.  
The sight of her blood tugs at him like an accusation as he uploads the file into document Manager, noting that it's Labelled 'Chapter 76: Lead me not into temptation', thinks it's a weird name and runs his eye over previous chapter names wondering which moments of his life they reveal.

Some are obvious, in an obscure way, "Lady in Red," "Tell Merril to swing away", even "Sympathy for the Devil." But some are just weird, when has a ghost ever made cups of tea? And what was with the fishing reference?

He glances at her image on the screen again, restrains his curiosity and clicks the final button to post the chapter.

She makes a small breathless sound deep in the back of her throat that's half purr, half gasp  
"Ahhh Sammy, I could kiss you right now." She breaths the words with a soft elated laugh when the pain stops.  
And it jolts him, hard, his brain interpreting things completely wrong, imagines her blood smeared lips on his with a visceral flash that sends blood south. Feels almost shocked as he swallows down the inappropriate response, thinking maybe both she and Dean are right. He needs to get laid!  
But the thought of picking up some strange woman for a one-night stand, after everything that happened in Montauk (and his whole life) it leaves him cold.

"So, uh… 76 Chapters… that's a lot ..." He fumbles awkwardly at normal conversation.

"Yes" She looks uncomfortable "I'm sorry Sam…asking that of you was… unfair. I know you hate it, guess that's why it's got the name 'The Thing You Hate'."  
She wipes all the blood off her face carefully and tosses the tissues in the bin. "Not that I'm terribly fond of it either… cos you know... it's _a bloody pain._ " She gives him a rueful aborted shrug along with the puns and winces at the movement.

"Still hurts? You should probably take something."

"Can't, maxed out. It's fine." Her voice held a subtle note of defensiveness that made him wonder how many pain meds she'd taken and how long she'd waited before she called.

"Where's Dean?"

"He's on a date."

Though 'Date' was probably stretching the definition of Dean's current activities with Carmen the waitress. Sam felt a measure of envy as Dean had left with her. Though he'd told himself it had more to do with being left to research the case, alone…  
Now considered maybe he was just plain envious in all honesty, his mortifying hair trigger minutes ago spoke volumes.  
Still, it had worked out for the best. He was _glad_ he'd been here tonight, glad he had _finally_ done something that helped Michele; _and_ that he could look forward to a less irritable brother in the morning.

The corner of Michele's mouth quirked up slightly and she looked like she was considering making some sort of smart comment, but let it wash by unspoken.

"So, you're out on a case" she asked instead "What's your monster of the week?"

"That's what I'm trying to work out. This town has a history of disappearances right back to 1898, one a year every year 'til '97, then nothing for 20 years… until this latest disappearance. We've got a witness that claims the thing that took his friend was Black Bill. According to local folklore, Black Bill is part man, part goat and lives in the woods, there's a minor similarity to the Jersey devil. But there's tons of human-animal hybrid lore dating back all the way to ancient Egypt."

"So, everything from Anubis, to a mad science creation... or Mr Tumnus from 'The Lion Witch and the Wardrobe' is a suspect?" She teased lightly.

He smiled ruefully and raised an eyebrow "huh… actually a faun or satyr isn't a terrible fit." Keyed in a search. "We've never come across one, but I mean, the world's a big place. The victim disappeared from a local make out spot in the woods during a party, which..." He glanced at the info on the screen. Read through it quickly and cleared his throat uncomfortably; turned the tablet decisively face down.

C.S Lewis' Mr Tumnus was the G rated version apparently, Sam was _very sure_ he'd rather not have discussions about uncontrollable lust and massive orgies with Michele.

Or of Satyr's feeding on the "lust sated flesh of its victims," until it was "full to bursting with their moist slippery meat.

Nope, _very not_ a conversation he wanted to have with Michele tonight.

…..

Sam walked back from the hall of records carrying a stack of files, mulling over the latest details of the case.

Barrett Bishop, Jr. Local Sheriff, the man was markedly uninterested in doing anything real to investigate Jarrod Hayes disappearance.  
Owner of Billhook Meats, the meat packing plant _both_ Jarrod Hayes and Daryn Boston worked at (and last place Daryn was seen before he disappeared.)  
One of the few people that knew Daryn Boston claimed to have witnessed Hayes abduction _and_ was a person of interest in Sam and Dean's investigation.  
Sheriff Barrett Bishop, Jr. Only son of the Bishop meat empire, an empire that founded Tomahawk and was in obvious in financial trouble (if the property sales and threats of plant closure were any indicator.) Sam can't help but find the Sheriffs blasé response and inaction, not only over Jarrods disappearance but also the abuse he knew Jarrod suffered as a child. ('Jarrod's had it rough. Mom left years ago. And his dad...Well, let's just say Jarrod "fell down the stairs a lot," you know what I mean.') worthy of mistrust. There was no doubt in Sam's mind that Sheriff Barrett Bishop, Jr. knew more than he was letting on about Black Bill.

Pushing open the dinner door he saw Dean, seated at the counter a burger already in front of him. The sight of the hunk of meat his brother was dousing in tomato ketchup turned Sam's stomach. Reminded him of the beef carcases hanging from hooks at the meat packing plant, which in turn brought a sickening flashback of the cage. How Lucifer had delighted in carving off chunks _of_ _Sam,_ hanging them up on hooks for show like that, or shoving pieces down his victim's gagging throat.

"Seriously? Dean? After what we just saw, how – how can you eat?" That morning Dean had blanched at the description of a satyrs feeding habits, but here he was after close-up experience with skinned cow carcase … eating.

"Grow up, Sam, okay?" His brother shot him a look. Dean _never_ understood Sam's dislike of red meat… after the demon blood and his time in the cage.  
"Burger's beef, bacon's pig…. Soylent Green is people." And _**that**_ hit way too close, Sam looked away as his brother continued and swallowed back the urge to gag.  
"…But **this** – _this_... This is heaven." Dean continued in diametric opposition to Sam's thoughts, proceeding to scarf down his burger like a starving wolverine. And God! Dean really didn't get it. But Sam had never had the courage to explain… and really there was no need, it was _his_ issue not Dean's and he had long ago schooled himself to man up and deal.

"Wow. Right. Um, so, uh, what's the word? You find anything?"

"Mm. Yeah, kind of. So, I cross-checked all the names of the people who went missing with the employee roster at Billhook Meats."

"And? Any more of the vic's work at the plant?"

"Try all of 'em." Dean informed him with a flourish.

"All of 'em? Seriously? So, I guess that means, safe to say that, uh, Black Bill is definitely connected to the plant?"

"Yeah. Or the family that runs it. Or both. Well, maybe they just run an evil petting zoo on the side." Sam smiled at his brother's snark. Glanced away as he took another bite (watching Dean eat was never pretty.)

"So, I, uh, spent some time at the hall of records. The Bishops founded Tomahawk. Everything. This is a company town. If you lived here, you worked at the plant. The Bishops owned all the houses, all the businesses. Or they did until a few years ago. Looks like the sheriff has been selling off all of their family property. Uh, everything, really..."

"Hmm." Dean nodded and continued eating looking thoughtful

" ...except for the plant and the family estate." He laid out a few colour copies he'd made of photos of the Bishop Family estate. Dean looked them over.

"Wow. So, he lives at the Addam's family house?"

Sam's phone chimed, he pulled it out and checked it while Dean waited, a questioning look on his face.

"It's Mick." Sam showed his brother the message ' _Just checking in.'_

"Okay. Tell him we're cool."

Sent back ' _Fine. Working the case._ ' and turned back to his brother.

"So creepy house?"

"Creepy house." Dean agreed with a small nod.


	78. Chapter 78:The flaw with waitin' 'em out

Chapter 78: The flaw with waitin' 'em out

 **Chapter 78**

Sam stood beside his brother surveying the basement room they'd found behind the quadruple locked door in the Bishop family house.

The main light had blown, but there was more than enough illumination to register that the walls were lined with sturdy, no nonsense items designed for processing meat.  
Maybe you could pass those off as historic keepsakes, reminders of the Bishop Family business, the whole reason for the family fortune.  
But there was something decidedly un-museum-like about the space, it felt… utilitarian, like a work room.

The main attraction stood in the middle of the room, and it _screamed_ of something far more sinister than a familial tendency towards hoarding old family implements.  
Shiny and functional, the metal table in the centre of the space could only be described as something designed to hold a _person_. The way it tilted down towards a grated drain in the floor spoke of easy clean-up and deliberation. There was no doubt in Sam's mind people had died in this room.

A faint scent permeated the space, stoking Sam's unease higher. Not a smell you'd expect in a basement; not damp or must, not old meat and blood either, _that_ he would have anticipated in a room designed to kill and butcher humans. This was something sharp, dry and musky, it lingered at the edge of his senses and spoke to the hunter in a muted voice of something dangerous and primal.

"Why is it always the rich ones? I mean, what, are they, like, "Croquet's all right. But you know what'd be great? Murder." Dean groused in disgust looking around.

Sam wanted to argue that it wasn't _always_ the rich ones, opened his mouth to do so, thinking of the inbred hillbilly Bender family they'd encountered years ago; but at that moment there came the sound of a door opening above them.

….

Sam kept his gun trained between the man's eyes as he watched his brother disarm and shove the sheriff up against the wall.

"Talk." Dean grated menacingly.

"This, this is not what it looks like." The man stammered completely unresisting.

"Really?" Dean scoffed "'Cause it looks like a straight up murder room to me."

The sheriff dragged his eyes off Dean meeting Sam's almost beseechingly.

"Sheriff, what's goin' on?" Sam asked tightly. He _really_ didn't like the guy, but his reactions seemed off.

The sheriff looked frustrated "You's... You's won't believe me."

"Try us. We're pretty open minded." Dean muttered stepping back.

The sheriff took a breath raised his hands and made his way to a chair against the wall "My family, we... got a secret."

"All the best ones do." Dean snarked drolly.

Sam sucked a breath "Is this about Black Bill?"

"No. I mean, yeah, but...He's not real. Black Bill, he's...us."

"Come again?"

"Uh... Growing up, my father'd tell me stories about a monster. Lived under our house and made our family rich. All we had to do was – was feed it."

"Feed it what?" Sam demanded clarification. Though really, considering what was in front of them, the chances were _damn good_ it wouldn't be cabbage.

"Blood. Human blood."

Sam glanced across at Dean, noticed a weird look on his face and he wondered if his brother was reminded of Sam's past demon blood addiction.  
' _Past! That was in the past, Dean!'_ … he wanted to argue. But then felt a small guilty rush of shame, reminded suddenly of the dream he'd had of Michele, with a mug, and a knife, in the bunkers kitchen.

"My dad, his dad, and all the way back, they'd go out and grab some poor son of a bitch, bring 'em here and... when they did it they wore a mask. Black Bill...We made him up."

Both brothers frowned.

"So, goat dude is just a dude?" Dean pouted slightly as if disappointed.

"Then who's the monster?" Sam wondered aloud. Had the Bishop family been keeping a Vampire in the basement or something more exotic?

"Moloch."

Sam raised an eyebrow in shock. Moloch was a name he knew, an old name, biblically old.

"God of sacrifice." The sheriff continued.

"What, I'm sorry. You – you have a _god_ living in your basement?"

"Yeah, one of my people way back, they bound Moloch, locked him away... Starved him. My family, that's what we did. We let the god get so hungry that he'd do anything for blood. Moloch used his power to make us rich. After my father died in '97, I put a stop to all of that. Look, I couldn't...I never killed anybody. I just wanted to help people, to make up for all the bad we've done. I wanted... To leave a legacy."

"Well, aren't you just a peach?!"

"So, what happened to Moloch?"

"I kept him locked up. Hoped he'd starve to death."

"Locked up where?"

Sheriff Bishop looked over and gestured at the grating under the end of the tilted metal slaughter table.

Sam made his way over, pulling his flashlight out of his pocket, and crouched gingerly. Noted how the sharp musky smell was definitely coming from the hole under the grating. Peered down into the darkness with his heart in his throat, expecting that any moment some kind of _thing_ would lunge up at the rusty iron bars.  
They'd seen god's before, mostly they looked human, but after 20 years of starvation the mask was bound to have slipped. Sam had seen behind a mad archangel's mask… Could a mad pagan god be worse?

But nothing lunged up out of the darkness, the cage was both intact and empty.

"It's empty."

"What?" The sheriff demanded.

"It's empty." Sam answered again.

The Sheriff stood "No, no. No, no, no, no, no." He argued in disbelief.

Suddenly there was a loud sound from the house above.

"Stay here. Keep an eye on him." Dean ordered shortly.

"What?! Dean, there could be a god up there!" Sam argued.

"I'm cool." Dean raised the Colt meaningfully in answer to his brother's objection and turned to ascend the stairs and investigate.

…

"Thanks Shell." Michele nodded and hefted the last of the boxes of books up to the guy she affectionately called her brother-out-law; she watched her sister-laws partner settle the box amongst the growing pile of boxes already on the Ute's flatbed and wiped the film of sweat from her face, wrinkling her nose at the smell of smoke on her hands (not the clean wood fire smell, this was the burnt garbage stench of house-fire smoke.)

"All these boxes really reek Ted; please tell me they're not going _inside_ the new house."

"Yeah Nah, they're relegated to the shed with the Harley. I _tried_ to tell Meg's and the girls to just turf 'em, but… well, you know how it is. What Meg's wants Meg's gets. They'll sit round in the shed for a year, then I'll biff them to the tip on the QT, none of 'em will care by then. No biggie."

"The idiots guide to Chadwick's: Wait them out…" she huffed a sigh "I'm not sure I'm equipped for that" muttered dark and moody, thinking of the cancer discussion she'd tried to have with her father in law the previous evening.  
It had answered a few of her questions, but _still_ left her with a gag order and an uneasily feeling that (if she didn't break her word) the first thing her husband might know of his father's cancer diagnosis, could be a phone call telling him his father had died. Michele knew it was Ray's right to choose… but it was just so… completely stupid!

Ted smiled enigmatically unaware his companions worries "Ko te manawanui he iti noa te wa e korero ai. He wa roa ke te ako." He declaimed ponderously, doing his best Maori sage impersonation.

"And that means?" Michele set a hand on her hip and gave her not-brother-in-law a sceptical look. Ted often made completely crap statements in Te Reo and passed them off as priceless proverbs handed down generation to generation by his Maori forbearers. It was actually something Michele really liked about the guy. In a world where PC ran wild, Ted was a down to earth Maori bloke that knew how to laugh at both himself and the world.

"That one's not actually bullshit Shell's. It's one of my Aunty Manu's fav's 'Patience – manawanui- not only takes a long time to say. It takes a long time to learn.'"

Michele grinned "I like it! So… what next… more boxes?"

"I could murder a beer!"

"Megan sa-id no one gets beer until all the boxes for the shed are in the shed." She reminded him gravely.

"Ko te oranga o te pononga he mamae."

Michele rolled her eyes "You know, it says in the bible that you should only use a gift of tongues if you interpret what you say."

"It's not 'tongues' if it's the lingo of the land, Pakeha oppressor."

"Calling me your oppressor probably would be more convincing if I wasn't lugging _your_ boxes of stinky books."

"Technically they're Meg's stinky books. She's oppressing the both of us. It translates as 'What I do for love'." Ted jumped down from the Ute and headed for the house to retrieve more boxes.

Michele hurried after him "Nuh Uh, Liar! Love is aroha. Mamae means pain." She argued.

Her sister-in-law's partner stopped, tipped his head back and laughed "Yeah okay. What I _said_ was 'a slave's life is pain.'" He turned and patted her on the head like she was kid, or a dog that had done a particularly clever trick, then strode on towards the house, his work boots splashed up muddy water as he stomped through a puddle.

Michele stopped and pouted at the man's retreating back in irritation. She was sure it had everything to do with her height. But, no matter what she did, people always seemed to treat her with a sort of affectionate dismissal. She just wished occasionally, people would treat her seriously.

As if an answer to the request, the vision struck like a bolt of lightning on a clear day.

….

The light is red and uncertain.

The air hazy in a way that reduces visibility.  
A taint of blood thrums uneasily in the air and for a moment, Michele is reminded sickeningly of those half-shared Hell memories she glimpsed when Dean had beaten the siren to death.

 _('Is this real or a dream? Is it one of Deans nightmares?')_

At the thought of Dean, the vision refocuses, showing him to her.  
But that only makes things more confusing.

Dean sits in a wheely desk chair in the middle of the oddly foggy red lit room.  
He's _tied_ to the chair with what looks like plastic cling wrap.

 _('Huh? Red light. Winchester tied in glad wrap? Is this a dream, a nightmare, or one of Cougars scary smutt fics')_

Dean looks decidedly unhappy to be there.  
So, chances are this is real, or will be.

He's breathing in stifled pants. His breath mists like wherever this is, it's _cold_.

Dean's eyes are wide flicking around his surroundings like he's searching for something or scared.

Everything is so -red- in the weird lighting, it takes her a while to register that there's blood trailing sluggishly down Dean's neck soaking into the collar of his jacket. It's coming from an abrasion behind his ear; not life threatening but it sends a spike of possessive outrage through her, reminiscent of turning up at school and finding Johnny with a new bruise or scrape _**that hadn't been there when she dropped him off**_. It's a need to know who did it, why and if they aren't sorry, she will make them be! The depth of the emotion is a bit shocking.

 _('Where's Sam, where's Sam, where's Sam…. ')_

Michele is unsure if those thoughts are hers or Dean's, Sam and Dean are a pair, one in trouble and without the other is just wrong. So, the wanting to know is like the background hum of that motor somewhere close by.

" _Pete's got the Colt. I'm Saran wrapped to a frickin wheely chair and I'm slotted to be a god's liquid lunch. 'Power in the blood' ain't '_ interesting' _if you're the source."_

Dean's thoughts puncture through into her mind like a focused blast, it's almost like he's yelling at her.

 _('Great okay, but_ _ **where**_ _are you Dean? Details!')_ it's a desperate query, one that goes unanswered by Dean as he tenses like he's heard something and scoots the chair towards the wall.

Michele feels urgency clench inside her, tries to focus on the details surrounding Dean, before she loses the vision.  
It's cold, that would be a clue in April in small town _New Zealand_ , but Sam said it was snowing last they talked. So, it's likely cold pretty much everywhere.  
It tugs at her that she _should_ know this…. Metal shelving racks, the hum of a motor close by…. cold

And then it hits her, Dean's in a walk-in freezer like they used to store the samples and media in back at her old work, back when she was the girl in a lab coat, back when life was simple.

…..

The vision spits her out and she finds herself kneeling on wet gravel beside a mud puddle staring down into it panting, as her blood drips and is swallowed up by the muddy water.

"Dean" she mutters pushing past the pain and fumbles for her phone.

…..

The minutes since Dean walked up the stairs ticked by slowly. Sam waited tensely trying to listen to his brother's progress above, trying to isolate any other sounds that could indicate something else was pursuing him.

Suddenly: thumps, impacts, something breaking, an aborted yell that could only be Dean's.

"Dean?" The yell forced its way out as Sam raced for the stairs, to go to his brother's aid.

Above him the basement door slammed shut.

…..

"What?!" Sam's voice was harsh in Michele's ear.

"Sam! Dean's locked in a walk-in freezer. He thinks a _god's_ going to eat him and someone called Pete has the Colt."

Sam's breathing hissed sharply in her ear "Okay." There was a splintering sound of impact that made her flinch, then silence.

….

"Bloody hell, Shell! Are you, all right?" Michele felt a hand fall on her shoulder and flinched, looked up into her sister-in-law's brown eyes as she was pulled to her feet. "Phil said you were getting nose bleeds and migraines, but I didn't think… you're covered in blood … you should have never let me boss you into lugging those boxes…" Megan chided, wrapped an arm firmly round her back and led her unresistingly into the half gutted kitchen, deposited her in a chair then cooed and clucked as she cleaned away the blood.

Michele finally collected herself enough to reassure her sister in law, that _really_ it looked _much_ worse than it was, she was really and truly fine! _**Honestly!**_

It took her five more minutes to convince Megan that she could sit at the kitchen counter and wrap plates and glasses with newspaper and pack them into a box without beginning to leak blood, pass out or burst into flames.

….

For Michele, the next hour that passed, dragged by torturously.

She only really felt like she could breathe again once her phone made that weird chiming noise and Deans name popped up.

"Please tell me you and Sam are both still in one piece." She breathed weakly glad everyone else was pulling apart the master bedroom furniture and carrying pieces out to be loaded onto the truck (a job Megan had decreed unwise for her ailing little sister-in-law.).

"Course we are! I'm wounded by your lack of faith." Dean pretended cocky outrage, but the edges of his voice sounded tired and brittle.

Michele took a long breath, what she wanted, all she wanted, was to be sure he was fully okay. But of course, Dean wouldn't give her a straight answer, he'd do the macho bullshit man of steel routine. It was so frustrating!

"I _have_ faith and it's _your actual_ wounds I'm worried about." She continued softer "Dean, last I 'saw' you, you were bleeding from a head wound and tied up in cling wrap in a walk-in freezer, thinking you were going to be eaten by something." _She wasn't going to call whatever it was a god, there was only one God!_ "So, I'm worried about concussion and frost bite and you know … chunks missing. It's good to see your male macho and deflection skills aren't damaged... But I worry okay?"

"Me and the _god_ Moloch went a few rounds, had the added bonus of keeping me nice and toasty warm while I waited for Sammy to turn up, like my knight in shining armor. He ganked the sonofabitch with the Colt.  
Really Mitch you missed all the good stuff. Me getting some licks in. Sammy standing there with the Colt hair flowing in the breeze, as he took the shot. The horn headed sonofabitch lighting up from the inside out an' dropping like a sack of meat. Fucking beautiful!"

She heard a disgusted huff from somewhere close by that could only be Sam.

"So, he didn't call you a moron this time huh? Not like when he saved you from the ghoul?"

Dean grunted in surprise "He told you 'bout that?" He sounded oddly vulnerable.

"Nope." she let the last syllable slide between her lips with a pop. "My point is, you don't need to brush it off or treat it like a joke, or what ever you're doing now. It's his _job_ to save you, just as much as it's _your_ job to save him. And just like I'm built to worry about people I care about. Let people do what they do. Don't be all… weird about it. You should… get something warm to drink, it would do you good. Can I? Can I talk to Sam please?"

"You're transparent Mitch."

"What can I say, it's a Mum thing. I worry about you both. You won't let me say it's my job, but I can't help it. And… Hey … I do think you're worth it."

Another grunt "Sam, tell her I'm fine will ya."

"Hey… he's fine."

"You checked him for frostbite and concussion?"

"He's got some scrapes and some nice bruises, but he's good."

"And you?"

Sam hummed in the back of his throat "I'm fine too." There was a smile in his voice "And thanks…"

"You…" she stopped herself. She'd been going to tell him he was family and Family didn't have to say Thank you, then realized that was probably overstepping boundaries "Umm like I told Dean I worry about you both, but you're worth it. If you really want to thank me, stay out of trouble for a little while. My nerves are frayed enough dealing with my in-laws." She'd been going for joking but some of the stress of the past days bled into her voice and made it raw.

"Are _you_ okay?" Sam's question made her eyes burn.

"No, not really Sam." She took a breath "but it's not you guys honest, it's just… normal family stuff. I'm just… I guess I _want to go home._ "

"That's happening tomorrow right?"

"Yeah. Now go pour something warm down your brother huh?"

"Okay, we're just about done here. And Michele… I dunno but… if you ever… want to talk… or vent or whatever… Even if it's about that 'normal family stuff'… I…" Sam cleared his throat "I don't totally suck at listening?" he finished the offer sounding oddly young and uncertain in a way that reminded her suddenly of Dean's thoughts a while back, that Sam hadn't had many friends growing up.

"Thank you, Sam." She spoke the words gravely "And Thank you for getting rid of another false god, that was a good thing. If it really was Moloch... he was biblical… people sacrificed their _children_ to him for like a thousand years… don't tell Dean, but I can't help thinking that ridding the world of _that_ is better than killing Hitler."

Sam huffed in her ear "Sure, don't worry I won't, he went on about that one for _months_. Pretty bizarre to contemplate though isn't it, something that … possibly walked the earth in the bronze age?"

"Yeah…"


	79. Chapter 79: Take me Home

Chapter 79: Take me Home

 **Chapter 79**

Phillip Chadwick carries a cup of coffee into the bedroom to find his wife already up, dressed and packing.

Feels a prickle of irritation at the sight of her kneeling there on the floor efficiently packing both their suitcases, so damned eager to get away from his family.

He'd hoped the trip would fix things between Michele and his Dad after the crapfest at Christmas last year; the way Michele's eyes hold echoes of that Phil Collins song "I can feel it coming in the air tonight" whenever they slide over Raymond Chadwick.  
Until the last few days his parents didn't even seem aware of Michele's lingering displeasure.

It's hard to see if you don't know her subtleties, his wife is always soft spoken, helpful and polite towards his folks.  
It's not what she says, it's what she doesn't. When his Dads in the room here's a poised reserve to everything she does, she's never mentioned the Christmas incident, not after she said her piece on the day it happened; she just never leaves Johnny or Chris alone in a room with his parents.

Instead of fixing things, this trip seems to have increased the tension. He's caught the sharp loaded looks, the way his parents look at his wife has changed. It makes him think something happened while he was away installing Meg's alarm, and no one's tell him about it … That bugs him.  
He'd been a clueless idiot after the twins were born, hadn't realising that woman was screwing round and making a fool of him; hints of secrets make him edgy and irritable like his skin is two sizes too small. His parents have always gone by the knowledge is power philosophy so, what ever it is they'll admit nothing.  
But Michele, she's always told him _everything_.

From the night stand Michele's phone chimes with a message. And the way she smiles when she hears it, the eager way she reaches for it, that just BUGS him too.

"Is that the criminal transvestite?" He asks with a bite in his tone he usually doesn't let slip.

Michele looks up at him from where she kneels looking at phone and pouts.

"I wish you'd stop calling Sam that."

" _And I wish he'd stop calling my wife. But we're both out of luck."_ It's a subvocal grumble, not meant to be heard.

His wife frowns.

"Do you have a problem with my fan-fic friends or just Sam?" Looks put out as she blows a breath through her fringe.  
Crap! He hadn't meant to start a fight, but his mouth keeps right on without his permission.

"Problem? No problem, I just think grown men should have better things to do."

Blowing out another breath, she rewords the question again. "Is your problem Supernatural, fan-fiction or Sam being a guy."

It's the same thing she does with Johnny, voice all mild and soft, hunting for the cause of one of the kid's meltdowns.  
" _ **I**_ don't have a problem. Guy doesn't have a girlfriend. Lives with his 'brother.' Spends his free time talking to my wife. No, I've got no problem." He bites out.  
He's not an autistic kid, and it pisses him off when she plays behavior detective on him.

Michele frowns, climbs to her feet and crosses the room

"So… I'm trying to work this out… do you think Sam's gay?" smiles up at him in gentle affection, like she finds him both very amusing and very silly right now.

"...Or are you worried he's not… Because you know… what Sam is or isn't, is sort of irrelevant.  
I'm like Johnny, takes me _forever_ to decide what I want. But when I do, that's it! World without end amen!"

And she has a point. He chased and caught plenty of easy women before he met his wife. Hunting Michele, trying for another notch on his belt, ended somewhere he hadn't expected. Her morals are like death, taxes and gravity. It took three years of frustration, changing and becoming a better man. Lots of getting acquainted with his right hand, then a ring. And _still_ he had to wait until after the wedding (not that he's ever regretted it.)  
Besides, this Sam guy's in America and has to be pretty lame; gay or straight, if he's reading Supernatural; a book series that inspires more gay porn than an explosion in a sausage factory.

She leans up and kisses him, just a feather light brush of lips but it sends a curl of warmth to the pit of his stomach and washes away most of his irritation.  
"If you must know the message was a review from someone called Beachwishen" she tilts her head and smirks teasingly "…on the chapter Sam, who _isn't_ to my knowledge gay and is _quite_ capable of picking up women in his own country, if he wants, helped me by posting…"

She breathes out slowly, and her shoulders slump a little "You know Phil, it might have escaped your notice… but being a Mum to kids like Johnny and Chris it's 24/7, 365 days a year and doesn't leave much room for adult contact with people that aren't therapists or specialists. Peaches, Kat, Cougar, Nic,Sam and his brother… they fill some of that gap for me. Keep me sane, when it's not sane, Okay? Writing, it isn't…"

She bites her lip and looks sad, wrinkling her freckle smattered nose like she's telling herself to quit while she's ahead. Shakes her head.

"It's _supposed_ to be possible to post a story from my phone… I just can't work out ho-wwww."

The slight whine combined with one of her helpless little girl looks does what it always does, a knee jerk reaction to make him want to fix any and everything for her when she looks at him like that.  
"Give me your phone, I'm sure I can work it out."

She hugs him tight, with a 'yes please' and 'thank you' spoken warm against his neck. Combined with the soft press of her breasts against his chest and the citrus scent of her shampoo, it reminds him that tonight they'll finally be home in their own bed, _without a two-year-old roommate_ until his usual 1am visitation _._

It makes him _damn_ eager to leave his old hometown, to take his wife home.

As he turns his attention to her phone and the fan-fiction website and she goes back to packing, it occurs to him that figuring out how to help Michele post stories from her phone has two benefits. It will make her happy. When she's happy his wife gives mind-blowingly good back massages, and other blowing activities, that are best _not_ done in a room with a two-year-old.  
And secondly, she won't need to get help from that Magnum PI wannabe to publish her stories in the future.

….

The drive home was notably quiet, Dean actually let Sam drive the first leg without any argument. Just folded himself into the passenger side of the Impala without a word, holding the vacuum-sealed lump of thawing steak to his face. Fell into a fitful doze before Tomahawk even cleared the rear-view, which wasn't surprising. He'd driven to Tomahawk without giving up the wheel, then spent an 'awesome night' with that blonde waitress, (if Dean's to be believed about his exploits, that wouldn't have involved much actual sleep.) Then he'd been knocked out, locked in a freezer and went a few rounds with a god.

Dean had been a busy boy, and even his stamina had an end point.

So, Sam settled his long limbs into the driver's seat of the impala and enjoyed the unspooling rumble of the old cars engine as she ate up the night-time miles. Just let his brother sleep, found a quiet contentment in the fact Dean had let him do what was needed, without making a big deal out of it for once.  
Every hour or so he did his due diligence; nudged Dean, roused him just enough to check his brain was intact and not turning to soup inside his thick skull.  
Dean'd wipe his drool, grumpily answer the stock questions, grumble and shuffle himself around like an old dog then settle back into oblivion, breathing thick and open mouthed, just this side of snoring.  
Dean was Dean, it wasn't particularly appealing a lot of the time, but Sam took a simple comfort from it none the less.

….

Michele stared pensively out the passenger window at the world flowing past.  
The journey back home was shaping up to be a long one, in a car filled with the noise of 4 energetic kids…. and a weighted silence from the driver's seat, that spoke volumes.

Her in-laws had decided that, 2 minutes before their son and his family hit the road for home was the perfect time to lay his father's cancer diagnosis on Phil.  
…And the fact that his wife had known for days and hadn't told him.

There'd been a short, hissed conversation between husband and wife over the revelation, before they'd got to the car and loaded up the kids, but nothing more (the children and the rest of the family _still_ weren't supposed to be in the loop. They'd only told Phil because they didn't trust Michele to keep her trap shut.)

So now the whole thing lay between them like an exposed nerve.

Michele glanced sideways at her husband's face trying to work out what was going on inside her man's head. She wanted to be mad at her in-laws for dropping her in it like they had, leaving her the only person responsible for dealing with the repercussions. But it is one less secret she has to carry around, or at least one less she has to hide from the man she loves.

Her life is becoming defined by the secrets she keeps.

The ones she keeps from her husband weigh heaviest right now.  
That her friend Sam isn't what she lets him believe.  
That the world contains supernatural things, and that she is shaping up to be one of them.  
That her health issues are a symptom of something ...much bigger.

She still feels uneasy about the timing of and the why behind her self accusations being spelt out in her fic. .

The tension in her husband's shoulders and the hurt set of his mouth reminded her of the unavoidable fact, secrets rarely stayed buried forever and there was nothing uglier than a secret once it had been exposed to the light.

…

Sam was flagging by the time Dean's sleep tank was topped off, had been only too glad when his brother ordered him to pull over at the next gas station, then demanded the keys.  
Glad to allow Dean to take control and trade back to the passenger seat.

Those times when Dean was willing to relinquish the wheel were oddly satisfying, but both brothers were reassured by the return to the status quo. Sam was glad to rest his head against leather seat, still warm from his brother's body and close his eyes knowing without a doubt, that Dean would get them the rest of the way home.

…..

They stopped for petrol and lunch at a park in Ohakune, the home of the giant carrot.  
The sun felt good on Michele's face as she sat on the park bench, watching the twins push their little brothers on the swings, while Phillip hunted coffee in a nearby cafe.  
The sight of the four of them, playing together, loving each other… they were such good kids; no matter what anyone might think, the four of them were the best thing she'd leave, if or when her lightbulb did blow.  
The thought made her throat tighten and her eyes burn as she watched them. How on earth could she be worthy of what she'd been given?  
Johnny leaned backwards on the swing to make sure she was still there and watching, let go to wave and nearly fell off – But his big sister caught him.  
The boy hooted in delight and leap all the way off the swing into his sister's arms, both children fell to the ground in a slow motion theatrical tumble, became a laughing heap of flailing limbs as a tickle fight commenced, the toddler and the other twin joined in moments later.

"They're going to be alright. No matter what happens in the end, they'll be okay." She told herself out loud, trying desperately to hold onto that belief.

Phil returned and settled beside her, handed over a capachino and sipped his own.  
"I knew something was up" he informed her after a while "didn't know what but knew there was something."

"I'm sorry... he asked me not to tell… and I felt like I had to honour his wishes. If I hadn't answered the phone I'd never have known..." Felt weirdly bitter over circumstances.  
 _('Just like I'd never have known I was writing things that were true if Sam hadn't seen my fic and messaged me.')_ It could drive you mad all the what if's and could have beens.

"The scan's on Thursday, it'll give them a better idea of how bad it is. Till then we wait and pray." She offered softly.

"Yeah" he nodded and stared focusedly over towards the kids, breathing shallow through his teeth, rubbed his knuckles and wedding ring backwards and forwards against his lips restlessly.

Michele followed his eyes, Mr 2 was now chasing the other three round the play area with a flimsy stick, yelling 'die, die, die' and cackling like a loon.

Without taking her eyes off the kids she slipped an arm round her husband's waist and pulled him close.  
He let out a ragged breath and mashed his face against her hair breathed deep like he'd run a race.  
She held him for a long while and waited without saying a word.

"My wife… always the first to know everything." He joked roughly, finally pulling away and offering her a hand up.

"Not everything."

"Pity, I'd love to win lotto, could you see us as millionaires."

"We'd spoil them rotten," she gestured across at the kids "But we have everything we need, so please take me home. I seriously feel like I haven't slept for a week… your parents spare bed, shiesh… I'm convinced it was designed to make sure no one overstays their welcome."

Her husband chuckled darkly "I'll take you home _and_ get you into bed." Swatted her butt as he moved past her "KIDS TIME TO GO," he yelled "early to bed for everyone when we get home!"

….

Dean elbowed Sam awake as they pulled up to the bunker. "Sammy we're here."

Sam pushed hair out of his eyes and blearily watched his brother climb out of the impala looking more bowlegged than usual, he stretched mightily and unlocked the garage tunnel entrance.  
Navigated the turns into the garage one handed as he pulled the car into her usual space, then looked over.

"Know what Pete said while he was monologuing like a third-rate villain at the plant, said the Bishop family business was 'hunting people and killing.'"

Sam grimaced, thinking how that was pretty much the antithesis of "Saving people and hunting Things," something Dean had labelled as being the Winchester Family business.

"I know, right?" Dean concurred with his brother's unspoken thoughts, as they made their way into the bunker and dumped their duffels.

"The Sherriff, he _was_ trying, Dean."

Dean shrugged as they clomped down the stairs, dropped the weapons bag on the map table with a thud and rubbed his head like it was still hurting.  
"Hey."

"Yep?" Sam responded easily as they made a bee line library without consultation.

"Next time you hear me say that our family is messed up. Remind me, that we could be psycho goat people."

Sam couldn't help laughing "Yeah, that's true enough."

Dean opened the mini fridge and fished out two beers, Sam pulled up a chair as his brother ambled back over to join him, Dean's face unusually thoughtful.

"You know, I was... thinking about what Bishop said. About..." waved his hand trying to encompass Sherriff Bishop's talk of making amends and family legacies. "What do you think our legacy's gonna be?" He dropped the beer bottles to the table looking uncharacteristically pensive.

Sam shook his head fazed by his brother's question.

"When we're gone," Dean clarified, twisting off the caps and seating himself opposite. "I mean… after all the stuff we've done… you think folks will remember us? You know, like, a hundred years from now?" Dean rolled his eyes as if to minimise the words he'd just spoken.  
Sam figured his brother must have been ruminating on things pretty hard while he slept. They weren't questions Dean, typically a man of action, showed an interest in.

Sam looked down at the beer cap in his hand "No." he answered honestly.

Dean looked away as if wounded "Oh, that's nice." He huffed.

"Well, I mean... Guys like us, we're not exactly the type of people they write about in history books, you know?"

"Mm." Dean grunted.

As he looked at his brother's discontent, it hit Sam like a speed wobble.  
His big brother still, after all these years wanted to be the hero, like in the comic books. Yearning and seeking to earn approval with what he did. Dean was _still_ their father's small soldier trying so hard yet never getting noticed. It tore at Sam somewhere deep, but he also wouldn't lie, not about this.

"But, the people we saved, they're our legacy. And they'll remember us." He continued and hoped that was enough for his brother, for Sam it was. They were so different in these things Sam couldn't be sure. There were moments for Sam when the thought of being forgotten and nothing - was actually comforting, like all his mistakes could be washed away "and then I guess...we'll eventually fade away, too. That's fine, because we left the world better than we found it, ya know."

Dean looked away, but his eyes had lost their pained look as they roved around the bunker and his thoughts journeyed on unspoken for a while.

"I wonder what's gonna happen to this place. After we're gone, you think some hunter'll move in, keep fightin' the fight?"

Sam smiled "Yeah, I hope so."

"Yeah. Me, too."

The silence stretched again, and Sam sipped his beer.

Suddenly Dean set down his beer decisively, reached into his pocket for his knife, flicked it open and gouged it into the table with a satisfied smile.

Sam sat forward with a puzzled frown "What are you doin'?"

Dean started to carve into the table "Leaving our mark." He stated with grim satisfaction, engraving the D.W deeper into the wood "Here." He tossed Sam the knife.

Sam lay cuts into the wood beside his brothers.

Carving his initials like that, took Sam back to being 4 or 5 and completely gutted about leaving yet another town. Wailing against Deans chest, pounding with his too-small fists at the wall of his brother's flesh.  
Shrieking "Why can't we be like everyone else? Why can't we have a home? I won't know anybody, Dean! No one cares, It's like we aren't even…" concepts and thoughts that had been too big for him to express back then, that just ended up coming out as "Why, why, why?!"  
He remembered how when the tears had stopped, Dean had pulled out a knife and had led him to do the most sacrilegous thing, ever.

They'd carved their initials deep into that back panel of the impala.

"This is us, Sammy, you an' me. Okay? You got me an' I gots you. And this is ours! That's what home is, okay Sammy. That's what home is."  
God they'd both been so young! …and Dad had tanned both their hides when he found what they'd done a week later. Of course, he had.

But their initials had stayed… and now, Sam guessed they'd stay on the table in the library too.

" _This is us, Sammy, you an' me. Okay? You got me an' I gots you. And this is ours! That's what home is..."_

 **Thanks for reading: drop a review before you go? They keep me writing.**


	80. Chapter 80: This is just how it goes

Chapter 80: This is just how it goes

 **Chapter 80**

"You look tired."

Michele shrugged, "It was a long week Sam … maybe not by Winchester standards. But-" she lifted her hand to brush back her hair, making her sleeve slip up, which revealed a ring of bruises around her wrist.

The sight hit the hunter with a spike of rage.

"What happened to your arm?!" he demanded sharply cutting her off.

She examined the bruises ringing her wrist without surprise. "Oh…" She said mildly.

"Who did that to you?!"

Michele's eyes snapped up to meet his with a startled expression. "Ummm probably Phil, last night. But seriously Sam it's no big deal..." she said bemusedly looking down and examining her wrist again.

"No big deal?! He hurt you, that's not okay." He fumed wanting to reach out, lift her chin, make her meet his eyes, get her to see it was a big deal, especially to him.  
Then use his fist to pound that message into the man that put those marks into her.

Michele's laugh jolted his train of thought. "Sammy I love you very much, but seriously stop for a second. This" she raised her arm "isn't domestic abuse, or what ever you think it is. It isn't. This is just how it goes, when you have the symptoms of a bleeding disorder without the actual disorder to go with it. Do I really need to give you a lecture on deficiencies in blood clotting factors and platelets?"

"That doesn't explain…"

"Sex Sam." Deans voice came from the doorway, interrupting.

"What?" He growled, shooting his brother a pissed look.

"She's got a hickey as well, Sam. It's always the quiet ones that like a bit of rough with their smooth." Dean leered, sniggered and received a snort of derision in response from Michele; "seriously Mitch he's a smart dude, I don't get where I went wrong." Dean continued "Just as well you're not the girl next door and we're on the no-fly list or Sammy here mighta gone all Liam Neeson on Mr Hobbit's ass." Dean clapped him on the back and squeezed his shoulder, hard. A subtle demand to stand down.

Michele's cheeks flushed. "Your brother's right about most of it, Sam. But I don't like it rough thank-you-very-much-Dean." She gave his brother an exasperated look, before gazing back at Sam with softer eyes. "I just bruise easy these days, that's all, okay?"

"You're a delicate petal Mitch, tell that husband of yours to wrap you in bubble wrap first next time." Dean chuckled darkly, and Sam knew the next thing to come out of his brother's mouth was going to be something vulgar, he elbowed Dean hard in the gut receiving a satisfying "Oooof" for his efforts.

"You're such a hypocrite Sam! You two commit domestic abuse on each other all the time."

"He was asking for it."

"Bet Mitch was asking for it too." Dean answered lecherously "'Cause married people have sex, lots of sex, more sex than me, definitely more sex than you little brother. Because Mitch here likes sex and thinks it's fu-n." Dean quoted tauntingly with an evil laugh before mussing Sam's hair.

"Seriously Dean, what are you like 12?!" he huffed in exasperation hunching his shoulders and ducking his head to hide his face for a moment.

Dean laughed mockingly but beat a hasty retreat to the map-table with the weapons bag before Sam could perpetrate another act of domestic abuse in retaliation.

"Your brothers as good at quoting me verbatim as another green-eyed boy I know." Michele shook her head ruefully and smiled.

….

The sound of a door opening close by made Michele looked round at someone off screen with a smile. "You forgot your lunch." She called brightly.

"Yeah, I realised that after my first job, thought I'd come home and pick it up. Hate for you to think I don't appreciate it and stop making lunch for me. You'd probably divorce me for mangling the gladwrap after a week. Want a coffee?" A man's voice replied good naturedly.

"Yes please. Hey, look what you did to me last night." She held up her arm.

"Bloody hell!" The man strode into the shot looking upset "should you be calling the specialist? I didn't mean… does it hurt?" He sounded horrified.

Michele tilted her head and met Sam's eyes through the screen, her lips quirked slightly as if asking if he was satisfied. "Relax it's normal. Sam's brother says you need to wrap me in bubble wrap before playing with me in future."

"Hmm, I _can_ see you doing a Farrah Fawcett."

Across the room Sam heard his brother make an amused sound, Michele however just looked confused.

"She was one of Charlie's angels, posed for Playboy wearing nothing but bubble wrap." Her husband explained. "You wearing nothing but bubble wrap sounds like lots of fun! Two excellent forms of stress relief in one package. Jessica Jones' brother may be a genius."

"I'd love to say he didn't mean it that way, but he probably did. Quit being grubby and fetch me a coffee, male. You're interrupting my Skype call. No one needs to hear your weird fantasies." Michele chided blushing furiously.

"Of course, your redhead needs to hear, I'm helping her write better smut. It's a public service."

Across the room Dean made a choking sound.

"It's not Cougar! I'm talking with Sam and don't call him Jessica Jones."

"Why?" Michele's husband bent over her shoulder and stared into the webcam challengingly, his smile was sharp as he brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck right above the hickey, never looking away from Sam. "Jessica Jones's a private investigator who's also a superhero vigil-anti, you're flattered aren't you Sam?" The man said mildly as if they were friends, his eyes sent a different message though, one that has Sam clenching his fists under the table in response.

"Sammy wishes he was that cool, that chick holds her liquor wayy better than Sam." Dean's drawl broke the tension, reminding him sharply he had no right starting a pissing contest with this guy.

"Like most jobs, what we do isn't half as exciting as the TV version." He agreed giving the guy his best 'I'm harmless' smile.

"Speaking of drinking, where's that coffee you offered me?" Michele asked looking up at her husband kitten eyed and sweet as she stroked her hand down his arm in absent minded affection, totally unaware of the byplay passing between the two men over her head.

….

Dean Winchester looks moodily across at his little brother from where he's seated at the map table cleaning the weapons. Sam's shaggy head is bent over a book, file or that crusty diary about the knocked-up nun he's been doggedly plodding through, every now and then he'll look up, glance at his laptop screen for a few moments and the corner of his mouth will turn up in a slight smile. Then he'll duck his head to submerge himself in his research again.  
Dean frowns to himself, he knows what Sam's looking at, that Mitch's still on the other side of that screen despite the two of them not saying a word to each other for over an hour, she'll be doing some boring suburban Nerd Mommy-housewife thing like folding laundry, playing with the kid or reading up on some medical thing one of her kids has.  
He can't for the life of him understand Sammy's fascination with watching that, it's like the worst ever reality TV show, one that's totally devoid of hot chicks, drama or power tools.

Sure, occasionally it might be like a cross between a slapstick comedy and a cooking show, and that's good for a laugh… like a few weeks back when she and the two boys baked cookies. The explosion of flour when the older kid turned the beater on high, epic. He'd coated everything in a 3-foot radius white, even Mitch's face. It'd been fantastic; and the smallest kid's insistence on trying to put every-fucking-thing-within-reach into the bowl whenever Mom took her eyes off him was freaking hilarious.

But the rest of the time it's like watching security cam footage.

Dean reassembles Sam's Taurus and sets it aside while staring into space, remembering the way Sam'd watched New Zealand's comedy baking hour with a misty bitter-sweet look on his face. How later on, over beer and pizza Sam'd muttered "I used to love watching Jess bake cookies…" while picking at the bottle label with his thumb nail. It's occurred to Dean in a quiet creeping way that Sam (who followed Dads grief example and had barely spoken of Jess after her death, hoarding the memories as if sharing them might wear them out somehow) has been talking about Jess a lot more lately. Which is probably good. Except _the way_ the memories keep coming out always seemed to relate to Mitch in some way and that makes Dean uneasy.

How Sam keeps looking up from his research, like he's checking Mitch's where she should be and that smile. Those things combine with Sam's reaction when he saw her bruises and his body language when he was talking to Mitch's husband.

It's probably nothing.

Thing is if it isn't…

…..

Dean stands up suddenly knocking his chair to the floor with a clatter.

Sam jumps at the racket and shoots his brother a look that asks if he's purposefully being an asshole or just a klutz.  
His brother rocks his head to the side "Gonna wash Baby, get the road salt off her chassis."  
Klutz then, Dean sounds sorta riled about something though, it's probably just the idea of rust attacking the impala.

"That announcement doesn't require property destruction, Dean." He jibes as Dean walks off with an over the shoulder "Bitch" tossed back at him.

Michele blinks at Sam owlishly from the laptop screen like she's just woken up and doesn't quite know where she is. She's been writing.

"Huh?"

"Sorry" He apologizes "Dean just needed to wrestle a chair, his way of announcing that he needs to go fight the evils of salt."

Michele scrunches her nose "But salts good, isn't it?"

"Not on his car it isn't."

She frowns, opening her mouth to ask for explanation.

"Road salt." he clarifies beating her to it.

"Ohhh. Snow! It doesn't snow here, sorry I'm not dense. Honestly."

He knows that, "You just live on a tropical island?" He teases with a lopsided smile.

"New Zealand isn't _tropical_ , heck it doesn't even really feel like we got a summer this year. Still, at least _you_ don't think New Zealand is a small town in Arizona, like one of my American fic friends teenaged kids. Speaking of…" Michele gave him a frank speculative look chewing her bottom lip like she was trying to decide on something. "If I asked you to tip a glass of water on your brother, would you do it?"

"Why?"

"If you'd read the chapter of my fic you posted for me you'd know. But … I'd rather not say, let's say it's partially an experiment."

"He's not going to melt or like multiply Michele, Dean does shower regularly."

Michele flushed in embarrassment. "Sammy this might surprise you but your brother in the shower is not something I want to think on, see… or write. Fully dressed wet Dean is my limit. Anyway, forget I asked, it's stupid!"

"So, the important thing is that Dean gets wet, but you want him wearing clothes?"

"Sam seriously, please drop it. It doesn't matter!"

"Last time you asked me to do something, I didn't. And we went to that bar." He held up his hand when she opened her mouth to argue, "there's one less monster out there because of it… and I uh don't regret _that_ , but… you… I regret that _you_ were there with us… So yeah, if you ask me to do something, it does matter, Michele."

"Sam, it's not like tha…"

"So? It's not like Dean couldn't use a cold shower now and then just for being a jerk."

"Sam..." It was her guilty, mildly panicked look that decided him.

"Live a little Michele" he admonished lightly with a grin. "Come on." He unplugged the laptop and picked it up. "He's washing the car, it's the perfect time."

….

It was bizarre to see the bunkers corridors like this as Sam carried the laptop through the bunker, usually Michele saw the Winchester brother's world like a collection of disjointed film clips, a scene set one place, another somewhere else, but they were rarely connected by the getting there. Most of the corridors looked the same, neutral tiles with a dark stripe above.

Sam stopped briefly and turned the laptop to face him. "You may get to see something very few people have seen." Sam warned in a hushed voice.

"What? No, I don't want… Sam!"

Sam chuckled at her discomfort, his multicoloured fox slanted eyes sparkling with mirth "… Dean in shorts." He smirks, turns the laptop round and continues walking.

Ahead music's playing, electric guitar with a strong back beat.

"She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean…" Sam mutters the song lyrics half under his breath along with the screaming vocalist as he carries the laptop into the garage and positions it on top of one of the vintage cars parked in the bays nearby, pointing it directly at the impala and Dean.

Dean's wearing a worn-out pair of too big canvas sneakers he probably stole from Sam, a black t-shirt and a pair of frayed, hacked off, denim shorts that obviously started life as a pair of jeans a long time ago.

He's singing along with the music while he hoses the Impala's underside.

"Hey." Sam calls easily.

"Hey." Dean looks over his shoulder, stands up and begins hosing down the top of the car. "If you're here, may as well make yourself useful, grab a sponge." He nudges a bucket full of soapy water.

The vocalist continues shrilling about how some woman shook him all night long as the brothers soap up the car. They don't say much, working together seamlessly, a sort of synergy in the way they move around each other. It's even more obvious how in-tune they are, watching like this on a flat screen without a vision driving.

Michele's sure Sam's lost his nerve as the song changes again and Dean starts hosing the impala off.

But then, Sam looks right at her, picks up the bucket of sudsy water and dumps it over Dean's head from behind.

Dean bellows in shock, standing there with his hair plastered flat, spitting water. Wetness planes down his face, cheekbones and lips, leaving bubbles caught in his eyelashes, the lines beside his eyes and the stubble around his mouth, before he raises a hand to palm them away.

The elder brother shakes his head as if in denial, looking at the younger with wide green eyes.

"Sam! What the hell!" He grates resentfully, a look of utmost betrayal painting his face as he stands there shocked and dripping, his clothing slicked to his skin.

Sam's doubled over, hands on his knees laughing.

He lifts his face and grins in the direction of the laptop.

"Thanks" He hoots "been a while since I've laughed this hard."

Dean glares, eyes narrowed dangerously before he raises the spray gun he's holding and shoots his brother full in the face with a torrent of cold water.

Sam splutters, dodges away shaking his wet hair back out of his face then lunges for Dean. Both brothers pitch to the concrete, rolling and tussling for control of the spray gun like a couple of curs fighting, soaking themselves more in the process.

Watching them Michele is shocked, there is something supremely disturbing about the meaty thwacks, aggressive grunts and bitten off curses, seeing two fully grown men grappling like this. It may be the equivalent of play to them, but to her it's like they've lost their minds. A sharp sound of objection slips out of her mouth.

Both brothers heads snap up, their eyes zeroing in on the laptop.

Sam, pinned down by his brother in that moment, looks ruefully embarrassed.

Dean … he looks like a predator disturbed mid kill.

….

Dean looks backwards and forwards between his soaked panting brother and the woman on the laptop screen. Both of them are looking at him with repentant puppy dog eyes, partners in crime caught in the act and waiting for punishment.  
And it's just wrong. His brother's on one side of the fence with someone else, and he's on the other, alone.  
His previous irritation surges back.

"Care to explain?"

"It's my fault." Mitch answers looking apprehensive and a little scared, like a little kid that's expecting to be belted. "I'm sorry Dean."

"No, it's not. You didn't _do_ anything" Sam flares puffing up.

"Great, awesome." He grunts turning on his heel and walking away from them both without another word, heading for the showers.

"Dean wait!" Sam catches him and grabs his arm, "why're you so pissed dude, it's just water."

"Can you even see yourself?" Dean turns on his brother, fists clenched in anger. "She's _married_ Sam! She has kids! She's not your girlfriend!"

"What? No! It's … That's…" Sam looks slapped. It takes some of the sting out of Deans anger.

"Just…. Don't go there Sam, don't. What ever Mitch is, no matter how much _you think_ she reminds you of Jess. She's not Jess!  
Jess was gorgeous, man! Mitch isn't even in the ball park. Only thing they have in common is being dumb enough to care and bein' innocent. It's gonna end in blood Sam.  
Besides she's taken, she doesn't belong anywhere near us an' our shit show, you know she don't."

"I'm not going anywhere Dean! We're friends that's all, you're the one that hits on everything with a pulse, not me!"

"You're the one that makes crap decisions with women, you're the one who never listens and gets good people dead, fighting battles they should never have been involved in. You Sam! I might sleep around but you, you fuck people up!"

Dean knew he'd gone to far before the words left his mouth. Dragging up Charlie and the past. Knew that before Sam's shattered look.

"Sam I…" too little, too late.

"You know what, Dean. Screw you." Sam turned his back and walked away.

...

 **A/N: Happy Purge Day people, and because its's more blessed to give than receive you get the gift even though its my birthday (though if you want to get me anything may a suggest a Review… they cost nothing but they're one of my favourite things.)**

 **Thanks to Melissa Smith Kennedy and the lovely ladies of the Supernatural Research and Discussion group for your valued advice.**

 **And 'Nic' I finally got there, wet Dean, Happy belated birthday! It took a bit of work, wrangling them... and maybe it wasn't totally what you were hoping for. But Chadwick's like Lannister's always pay their debts, luv ya.**


	81. Chapter 81: The Consequences left behin

Chapter 81: The Consequences left behind

 **Chapter 81**

Contrary to what the readers of Carver Edlund's books or the many authors on fan fiction may believe, when Winchesters come to blows verbally there are often no heart felt broments or deep and meaningful conversations afterwards.  
Most often (especially now they inhabit the bunker) they just withdraw to their respective corners and lick their wounds in stormy silence.  
Dean may have sketched out moments where he's dealt with things differently in past months, but this skirmish wouldn't lead him to _that_ doorstep, stubborn justification and half formed insecurities, combined with a healthy seasoning of guilt, ensured it. That and he had too much pride.  
Which left a dive bar and copious amounts of liquor, the time-tested way of dealing that he'd learnt at John Winchester's knee.

…..

Sam flinched at the sound of the Bunkers door slamming shut. He'd changed into dry clothes mechanically and was now sitting on the edge of his bed staring at the floor between his feet, while his mind spiralled in ever decreasing circles of resentment. Stewing over the things Dean had said.  
One minute they'd been goofing round, letting off steam for the first time in what seemed like forever.  
Sure, the whole thing had been juvenile, but Dean wasn't anyone's definition of grown up. Besides Dean had been pissed about the bucket of water over the head, but not _really_ pissed - until he'd seen Michele's face on the laptop.  
Then he'd stormed off, started spouting accusations about Michele that were way out of left field... but maybe not to be unexpected.

Dean had always taken Sam's need for friends like a subtle betrayal when they were growing up.

Sam huffed, he was supposed to be just waiting when ever Dean wanted him round back then. On the flip side, Dean wouldn't think twice before ditching him to go off after some girl. Half his childhood had been Dean leaving him alone, night after night in some dive motel or squat they'd been dumped in by Dad. He got that the endless hook ups were Dean's escape, but his brother never understood that maybe his little brother's escapes were different.

Just like Dean never, ever let go of the past, never really moved on. Had a habit of dragging up the things he blamed Sam for, years after Sam thought they been dealt with and buried. So _of course,_ he threw Charlie in his face again too, charged that he'd get Michele killed like her.

Dean was such a hypocrite! _He_ was the one who couldn't keep two girls straight in his head. Michele wasn't Charlie, any more than she was Jess. Michele wouldn't go chasing the supernatural and he hadn't drawn her into their world, she'd been writing their lives long before Sam had stumbled on her story. Dean made it sound like if Sam just stopped, Michele would suddenly be out, free. But that wasn't the case.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, decided to stop wasting time and energy fuming at his brother, who was probably working on alcohol induced oblivion or had his tongue down some bimbo's throat right now. To get some work done, comb through the Prince of Hell research one last time before discarding that angle as a way to track down Kelly.

Made a detour to the garage to retrieve his laptop, which was dead flat now, because the battery life on the thing was pretty laughable.

….

Dean woke cold and aching in the impala's back seat next morning.  
The seedy bars parking lot, like last night's beer held no charm at all in the cold light of day; just left him with a splitting head, an acid stomach and a mouth that felt and tasted like the rubbish littered gravel lot he was parked in.  
He checked his phone wondering if he'd missed any calls from Sam, but there weren't any.  
Not surprising, Sam would be in self righteous, screw you mode, shut down like Fort Knox.

Dean figured if he didn't turn back up at the bunker by this time tomorrow Sam might drag himself out of his sulk long enough to leave a bitchy voice mail outlining all the ways Dean was dead wrong, out of line and just acting like a jealous two-year-old who's best friend had had the tenacity to play with someone else for five minutes.

Dean was determined to get his ass back to the Bunker before that, frankly he didn't need to hear it. He'd told himself it all already with every alternating mouthful of the piss tasting tap-beer the horse faced bartender plunked down in front of him.  
Maybe a lot of what Sam'd spit at him would be true, but none of what he'd said the previous day to Sam was wrong either, even if little brother had a stick too far up his ass to see it.  
Dean wasn't gonna apologise for being right any more than Sam would come down off his mountain top of denial.

So, they'd both stew and simmer, snark at each other passive aggressively, possibly come to blows. Neither one of them would back down and it would continue for a few days before the next monster or encroaching end of the world disaster made the whole thing seem pointless. Dad always told them "the case comes first, everything else works around or gets shelved." And there was always a case somewhere, finding it was how Winchesters avoided dealing with everything else.

…..

Sam straightened in his chair realising his mind had slipped once again from translating the Latin, plague era record about the nun's pregnancy (with a possible Nephilim) and stretched his spine with a long groan. Despite his best intentions he kept remembering Deans words and thinking up sharp rebuttals. Or gazing at his Skype app, seeing Michele's ID, raising his hand to click on it, then hearing Dean flare _"you're the one who never listens and gets good people dead,"_ in his head. Sam let his hand fall limply to the wooden table again.

Dean was a Jerk, no wonder Michele wanted to dump water on him!  
Then, Sam found himself wondering uncomfortably if she was aware of Dean's allegations about their friendship _. "_ _If you'd read the chapter of my fic you posted for me you'd know. But … I'd rather not say..."_  
The memory of her words sent him searching for her email and the file labelled "Lead me not into temptation."

….

Michele rested her forehead on the computer desk with a low wrung out sound, there was an urge to raise her head and thump it down again and again on the wooden surface, to replace the fading headache that had driven her to write with another pain.

Her fic had wet Dean. But by trying to twist the narrative to please a reviewer, she'd inadvertently poked at Dean's insecurities, which had apparently reared up and combined with his inability to understand male female interactions that didn't involve sex.  
So, he'd accused Sam of stuff that was _just stupid_ (and considering Dean had once tried it on for phone sex, exceedingly pot-kettle territory.) Sam had lashed out, then Dean had done likewise, and….

All because she'd talked Sam into tipping water over his brother

 _(_ the sentence _"And it's just wrong, h_ _is brother's on one side of the fence with someone else, and he's on the other,_ _ **alone.**_ _"_ glares at her from the screen)

…all because she'd wanted to feel like she had control. The chapter where she'd first thought of doing it was called "Lead me not into temptation." How much more warning had she needed that it was a bad idea? She knew, she knew, it was an abuse of power… but she'd wanted to try it. To experiment with cause and effect. To feel smart because she'd worked out a way to manipulate the system.

They'd told her she wasn't a prophet, but Balaam was a name that came to mind right now.

A bible tale about the Israelites and the Moabites. The Moabite king, hoping to buy power, in the form of a curse against the Israelites, protect his land from invasion, had sent minions to offer Balaam money to curse the invaders. Balaam had wanted to be bought, but couldn't because God didn't want the Israelites, His chosen people cursed. There was a lot of back and forthing, with a talking donkey and an angel in the mix. But it was the punch line of the story that applied here. … the prophet who couldn't curse Israel and could only tell the truth… found another way, outsmarted the rules of his existence to cash in on the money (because God always leaves room for free will.) Balaam told the Moabite king how to get the Israelites to curse themselves and earned his money. ('Introduce them to flashy foreign gods and they'll curse themselves.')

Convincing Sam to tip water on his brother because she wanted to indulge a friend wasn't treason. (Especially since she'd sort of been trying to yank Nic's chain by purposefully engineering fully clothed wet Dean, something that was supposed to be more funny than sexy. Instead of course she'd gotten something more like Lemony Snicket's A series of unfortunate events, because as Cougar often lamented, writing Winchesters was like trying to herd cats (so incredibly true and really funny coming from someone who thought they were fictional characters.)) But it was a step onto a slippery slope. A warning, that trying to bend the story had consequences.

"Lord I'm sorry, I didn't mean any harm… but I messed up. I get it, Sam and Dean… they're people, not toys and this, what ever it is I'm doing… it's not a game for my amusement … or anyone else's."

….

Sam raked a hand through his hair, huffed a breath and sat back from the laptop screen trying to process what he'd just read.

Michele'd wanted him to tip water on his brother to satisfy some fan fiction readers predilection. It was petty, no wonder she hadn't wanted to tell him why, then tried to back out when he'd agreed….

The rest of her chapter, wasn't about him or Dean.  
It was Michele's life, spoke of things she never had. Things he'd never asked about, parts of her life he'd made assumptions on.

Reading it, he couldn't help feeling bad for her. She spoke and acted as if her life was simple and happy, apart from a few annoying nose bleeds. But she was a bit like Dean, there was a lot happening under her happy go lucky surface. On one level she saw herself as lucky and blessed, was happy and grateful for everything life gave her. But under that she also felt cursed and unworthy, carrying around survivor's guilt and a martyr complex. He saw her responses differently now, how she'd accepted being thrust into their world, like it was the price she had always expected to pay. She was set apart as different and other, by things that looked like protection and blessing, but underneath there was something darker.

He understood it, those guilts and burdens. It seemed obvious to him now she either possessed erratic powers, which she'd rather attribute to an outside source. Or was actually being manipulated by something and had been for most of her life.

She wanted to believe that something, was God, but was it? By listening to her, allowing her access to their lives was he allowing it to manipulate him and Dean as well?

…..

Its somewhere between midnight and 2am. Michele is dreaming, whimpering softly in her sleep. Behind closed eyelids sparks of gold expand and flare in her eyes. Blood begins to trail from her nose soaking into the pillow under her face, staining it crimson. At her side Michele's husband sleeps on, unaware.

…..

Kelly Kline is somewhere cold, damp and gloomy seated on the bare mattress of a metal cot.

Her eyes shut, as she leans back against a roughhewn wooden beam. It helped a little, kept the cold stone wall against which the cot sat, from leaching more warmth from her body, not much though.

Her skin was grimy, her hair lank and greasy. Her ankle was shackled to the cot by a chain and padlocks, the skin under her black leather boot felt raw and abraded. Dagon had stopped pretending that she was a free agent, and not a prisoner, after she had been tricked by the Winchesters.

Kelly stared listlessly at the insides of her eyelids, thinking about what Dagon had told her, that the weird little pains were just a taste of what was to come, that birthing a Nephilim was fatal, always.

Her son was going to kill her, Kelly slid a hand over her stomach and felt her child move inside her in response.

"Hey." Dagon's harsh voice and rough slap to the leg made Kelly jump. "Vitamin time." The demon waved the pills in her face and Kelly pushed them away.

Dagon grabbed her chin roughly, forced Kelly to meet her eyes.

"Don't." She warned, then stuffed the pills one by one into the woman's mouth while pinching Kelly's face in a super human grip.  
Kelly struggled and whimpered as the demon covered her nose and mouth, clamping them shut to stop her spitting like she had done once before, to force her to swallow.

"Be a good girl." The demon advised in a singsong voice, as Kelly struggled against her grip helplessly, running out of air, then swallowed raggedly.

"There." Dagon muttered.  
"Really, Kel?" she chided as the woman coughed and gagged.

"Not taking your pills, picking at your food, refusing to bathe?" Kelly just panted for breath and turned her face away looking ill. "Stop disrespecting the God inside of you." The demon advised.

"He's gonna kill me." Kelly whimpered.

"Yeah. And he's not gonna stop there. Every sad, weak human. Every tight-ass angel. Every snivelling demon. They'll all be consumed." The demon tilted her head back and smiled in rapture as she spoke. "So, go ahead. Play your games. But whether you're healthy or sick, filthy or clean, He _will_ be born." Dagon sighed happily. "Good times!"  
"But until then," the demon leaned over and unlocked the chain from Kelly's leg. "Do us both a favor? Take a bath." There was a threat implicit " _Do it or I'll take a cold hose to you, I really don't care which way it goes Kelly."_

The vision flickers.

…..

The world is suspended, no light and a sensation of being cushioned and enfolded.

A drum beat keeps time in the darkness.

Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub, lub dub, lub dub….

It is a metronome that encompasses the universe.

A feeling of motion rocks her/them.

The rush and surge that reminds Michele of wind or waves is still there, but it feels strained and flat.

"I'm here again."  
The words are clear though they aren't spoken, they have the flavour of her voice and reverberate in this place. Then, it feels like someone or something turns towards her.

 _ **I know you!**_ (It is a sensation, that doesn't quite hold the distinctness of words, a pulse of acknowledgement.)

"Yes… I know this place. Where… Are … We?"

 _ **We? Where?**_ (A request for clarification of what she asks.)

Michele's mind offers an image of herself.  
"Me, I am…" - Her self-image becomes a little confused and blurs, as thoughts and images, her children and family creep in.  
(Separating herself from what she does and who she loves has always been a battle.)

 _ **?**_

"I am." A simple memory of looking at herself in the mirror.

Images of her children reflect back at her from the outside source, Johnny's face the strongest _**?**_

"My son, Johnny." She identifies. A feeling of deep abiding love wells up out of her with the words. She feels the presence push forwards, toward the reverberations of emotion, like a child enraptured by something beautiful.

 _ **Son? I am?**_ Johnnys face again _**? Son?**_ Again a reflection but this time of the emotion, the love she'd felt, it's like a crude child's drawing _**?**_

"I love my son, Johnny."

 _ **I am son/child also/as well?! ('But I love this child.')**_ It's a replay of a woman's voice, behind it Michele feels the presence's certainty the words refer to him.

Michele feels a pulse of happiness (they understand each other!) It's met by 'this child's' own, in answer, like an emotional high five.

' _ **Love?' '**_ this child' queries again and Michele feels amusement, 'this child' knows what Love is, he knew what it was last time they met, he's just greedy.

But Michele is happy to indulge him. She opens her experience to him like the petals of a flower.

"Love!" She tells 'this child' as they examine a million experiences and the faces of the people that embody them, in an instant.  
Some of them puzzle 'this child.' There are experiences of love that hold a lot of pain and suffering in the mix, her parents, her pregnancies and her son's births.  
"Love sometimes hurts. But it's worth it." She advises gently. She lets what she's learnt of love in her 40 years on earth wash through her and into 'this child's' eager grasp.

Then 'this child' finds memories of her son Davi's death.

'This child' is confused by her memories of death.

 _ **?They go away, but they don't ? Why?**_

Michele draws away gently, in concern that the topic isn't appropriate, so soon.  
'This child' tugs at her mind like he's begging, and she relents a little. Try's to explain with words.  
"Human bodies don't last forever, when they cannot support life any longer… their soul moves on…" She layers emotions of sadness and acceptance into her explanation, grief balanced against hope of eternity with God in heaven.

….

Michele and 'this child' are dragged away from their co-exploration.  
A wash of misery and despair encompasses them, devastating everything else. It tastes bitter on the tongue like bile, overwhelming their private universe.  
The metronome of the world races and lurches, the wind and waves become frayed ragged.

"I love you. But we won't ever be together."

The words surround them both with a lament and Michele recognises it as the same voice 'this child' shared earlier. This time the voice isn't a memory, the words have heft and weight, true sound instead of the flavours of memory or emotion.

Michele is washed and swept up by the way 'this child' adores the voice.  
To 'this child' the desolate voice is the centre of the universe, his first taste of love, all that is good and right. It makes him happy.  
But Michele understands the tone and the words and is filled with foreboding.

"There is no happy ending for either of us." The woman's voice continues, they are words of despair.

Michele does the disembodied equivalent of nudging 'this child,' grabbing him to get his attention, tries to convey the understanding that something is wrong with the woman 'this child' adores.

"And if what she said is true, if this is what you really are…" The woman's voice wavers and breaks in despair. "What you'll do to the world… all that pain, all that death, I can't let that happen."

It hits Michele like a freight train.

That she knows the woman's voice, that this is a continuation of the previous vision, just a different view point.

Kelly Kline!  
The woman is Kelly Kline.

'This child' is the Nephilim!

The shock of realising this, knocks her free of the small enclosed universe.

Out of Kelly's womb.

…

Kelly Kline is sitting naked in a bath gripping a shard of broken mirror, sobbing.

"I'm sorry." She gasps "I'm sorry."

As she presses the broken glass to her wrist, digs it deep, then drags it up her wrist in a long open gash.  
Kelly gasps and shudders in pain.  
Clumsily does the same to the other arm, before Michele's helpless and horrified gaze.

"Nooo!" It's a pulse of denial and horror, a rejection of suicide on a base level, ripping through Michele.  
She tries to reach out, grapple for the essence that make up Kelly and 'this child,' the nephilim, as if to stop the blood.

Every fibre of her being screams to somehow stop Kelly's death.

The death of this unborn child, who has never opened his eyes, taken a breath, or laughed.

Frantic, helpless, struggling against the futility.

"Nooooo!" Michele watches the bath water turn red, the pulses of blood slowing to a lax dribble as her blood pressure drops and Kelly slips further and further from life.

"Noooooooo!" She denies again, tries to push against her insubstantiality, tries to hold life in Kelly, with will alone.

Distantly Michele feels a burning pain in her chest, pushes away the awareness of the pain.

 _ **No?**_

"No!"

For a second, it's as if she and the nephilim touch.  
'This child' pushes forward into her awareness, sucks up the knowledge of the damage Kelly has done and the consequences … what all the shed blood and the failing pulse mean for both Kelly and 'this child.'

Whisps and echos of her words about death swirl through the meeting of minds like mist.  
 _ **?**_

"No, not like this!"

Suicide is wrong.

An aberration.

Against God's will.

Suicides go to hell!  
– Angry, confused and hurting!

 _ **?God? Heaven?**_

"No ~ I'm not sure." Resentment.

Her emotions and experience floods into the link unbidden, there is no hiding or snatching back her childhood wounds.

Barely a teenager, her Mother's brother killing himself, watching her mother fall apart for months. Having to be the adult support, while still a child, because there is no one else who will, again.

The consequences left behind.

" _ **No!"**_ Agreement.

Suddenly a pulse of golden light surges through Kelly, lighting up every capillary, vein and artery.  
The gaping wounds in Kelly's wrists knit shut.  
Her body jolts, and she gasps in a breath as her eyes fly open.  
Gold sparks flare briefly in her eyes and a smile like revelation lights up her face.

Then Michele is jerked away.

...

She returns to light shining in her face from the bedside lamp.  
To Phil shaking her, begging frantically.

"Breath, come on, please breath!"

Gasps in a breath to oblige his request, then grabs his hands to stop him shaking her before her head implodes.  
It feels like her skull is made of shattered eggshell held together with chewing gum.

"Stop, I'm here." She croaks weakly.

He looks down at her with eyes like wounds.

"You weren't breathing, there's so much blood." He accuses.

She rolls her head to take in the red squelchy mess that was once her pillow.

"All the cool kids were doing it." She mutters thinking of Kelly.  
Her husband just stares at her.  
Irritated that no one appreciates her joke she goes to sit up, and promptly faints.  
Wakes up in the ambulance on the way to hospital.


	82. Ch 82: Things that are Hard to Swallow

Chapter 82: Things that are hard to swallow

 **Chapter 82**

When Dean made his way down the Bunkers stairs Sam was exactly where he expected him to be, seated in the library, head bent over a book.

Dean approached his brother cautiously, dropping a paper bag with Sam's favoured breakfast order to the wooden table, then plunked down the smoothie he was carrying beside it; in his opinion the thing looked and tasted like drainage canal water and wasn't fit for human consumption. But Sam had freaky screwed up ideas about food.

Bringing his brother back food was not an admission of guilt, it wasn't an 'I was wrong.' It was doing his job, Dean defended internally. Just taking care of his pain in the ass little brother and making sure he ate. 'Cause Sammy would've been up all night, pointy nose wedged in a book, wouldn't have even thought about feeding himself.

"From that place you like," he coaxed. "Though how anyone can drink that shit is beyond me."

"Spirulina is an ecologically sound, nutrient rich, dietary supplement, Dean." Sam muttered bitchily without looking up, reaching out for the smoothie and taking a sip of the offensive green sludge, he nodded once in approval.

"It's pond slime Sam, actual pond slime." Dean pulled a disgusted face to get his point across, "that the one 'bout the knocked-up nun?" He changed topic, trying to avoid starting another fight, knocked his brother's reading material with his knuckles for emphasis.

"Yeah." Sam's voice was closed off as he opened the paper bag and dragged the shamefully-bacon-free-healthy-flavour-impaired-atrocity out of the bag and cocked an eyebrow in surprise, finding that the food wasn't something he deemed offensive.

"Thanks," he muttered, eyes lifting for the briefest moment to his brother's face, before looking away again. (Little brother hadn't let go of yesterday, apparently.)

Sam dug in to his food. "Mmm… Wish I knew if it was about an actual Nephilim though."

Dean hummed under his breath. "Why the hell are you readin' the whole thing Sam, skip to the end, read the last chapter. It's what I used to do in school."

Sam scowled in offence. "Dean, I can't just…" stopped himself and frowned looking nonplussed. Then huffed, "okay, guess maybe I can..."  
He leafed through finding a starting point nearer the end and bent his neck, rested his head against an open palm. Cntinued eating with his other hand as he read.

"Work smarter, not harder College boy."

Sam didn't answer, just grunted, his lips moving soundlessly as he studied the faded latin.

Dean figured it was time to make himself scarce.

As he walked away the elder Winchester glanced back at Sam's laptop. Noting with a jump of muscles along his jaw that the machine wasn't even turned on and felt a momentary flash of regret.  
At most, he'd meant for Sam to rein it in, avoid screwing up things for Mitch with her husband and kids, or getting too involved, for both their sake. He'd never wanted Sam to cut her out entirely.

…..

" _Puer natus est solus sanctus diem introitus eius praevenerat ingens tempestas._

 _Tertia vigilia in nocte ante diluculum nuntiatum partu Collete coepit. Renuntiationes fuit, ut ex pluvia sanguine, aderam inundationem inundantem pago… multarum perdidit vitae…."_

" **The child was born on All Saints Day, her entrance heralded by a massive storm.**

 **In the third vigil of the night, long before dawn, word came, as Colette began her travail. Reports of** **rain that was blood, unheralded flooding inundating the nearby village… many lives lost.."**

Sam translated the words, scratching notes onto a pad for later reference as he worked. Mention of 'rain that was blood' and a massive storm that caused 'many lives lost,' fitted with the signs in the lore, associated with a Nephilim's birth.

" **Of blood rain I cannot confirm, however many God fearing Christian men swear to the veracity of the claim.**

 **I can state that the storm itself was beyond natural in its ferocity. Savage thunder and lightning brought to mind the battle written of in the book of Daniel, as if heavenly and demonic forces contended. Many within the Abbey walls were filled with dread.**

 **Colette travailed long without respite, she and all who were present were greatly wearied by the protracted nature of her tribulation.**

 **The child was delivered to the world during the vigil of lauds. The moment of birth was attended by a brilliant flash of illumination and a jolt of impetus unlike any I have forthwith experienced; such was it that it dashed all of us present for her confinement loose from our footing.**

 **When we again regained standing, we were sore aggrieved upon discovery that Colette had forthwith breathed her last.**

 **In death Colette's face was miraculously composed, all signs of the toil that had ravaged her frame wiped away.**

 **Her face could only be described as transcendent, serene, an image of beauty that recommended to the imagination the blessed Virgin's visage, as it must have appeared upon the birth of our Saviour.**

 **The child herself was likewise a perfect marvel, one of holy beauty. Not wizened, covered in blood or squalling, as any other infant born.**

 **Perfection of form, despite her shortened gestation. Face already capturing the most serene and angelic of smiles. Her crystalline-blue gaze guileless and ageless. Tiny face haloed by fine golden curls, serene and angelic, a child unsullied by any shadow of the carnal.**

 **In that instant, all who beheld her, believed. Knew without a doubt that this child was no normal child, she was destined for sainthood.**

 **But alas my soul! The powers of darkness, the devil's own minions, forever seek to snuff out The Lords Light, and we were but weak unworthy custodians.**

 **Suddenly, without warning a group of strangers materialised inside the locked birthing chamber.**

 **The strangers appeared to be two men and three women, dressed in foreign garb, their visages blank of emotion or feeling.**

 **I believe they were infernal inhuman imposters, doubtless created by the enemy of our soul. Monstrous minions of hell, having the form of men and women but not the tender sensibilities there of.**

 **What else but hellish abominations could perpetrate the heinous crime I quail to report? The slaughter of an innocent child in a place set apart to the worship and contemplation of our Creator.**

 **With a wave, one of these demonic beings pinned us helpless against the wall, where we were held motionless by an infernal force, defying our prayers and struggles to escape. We were forced to watch on in horror, as one of the strangers raised a silver spike high and plunged it through the child's tiny form.**

 **Thus, passed the blessed child from this earth.**

 **A long drawn out note, high and sharp rang out piercing us to the soul. The child's eyes lit up from within, a holy light glimpsed for a moment, as her unsullied soul released its mortal coil.**

 **I have no doubt the child's pure, venerated soul winged straight to heaven, accompanying her blessed mother.  
Our blessed Colette, on whose behalf I pen this account. She who suffered for naught and warned of the evil and darkness yet to come; this infernal plague that sweeps over our land, this Black Death; a rot of evil I fully believe the child was born to rescue us from. **

**Now, because of the sin in our hearts and our unbelief, God has abandoned us.**

 **I write this account to you Holy Father, begging you to revoke the excommunication of sister Colette. Sister Colette's words were prophetic revelations and must be spread. Warnings given!**

 **Her child was not conceived by an act of sin, but by the will of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Her child, no ordinary child!**

 **We must repent, scourge ourselves of our sin and unbelief. Pray for forgiveness, that we be spared the ravages…."**

Sam stopped reading. The account continued with more pious rambling about sin, Black Death and the forces of darkness.

There was no need to continue reading.

It was obvious the nun's child had been a Nephilim. Dispatched on the day of it's birth, by an angelic task force similar to the one Isham had deceived Castiel and all his flight into believing they were part of, the one that had killed Lilly Sunder's human daughter.

…

It occurred to Sam much later, as he drunk yet another cup of coffee and applied himself to other records of Nephilim lore; that while both the nun Colette and her Nephilim daughter's life had been cut short. The cleric's incredibly detailed (and long winded) record could be of use.

Colette claimed the angel came to her and 'stirred life within her' on Ascension Thursday, the child was born on All Saints Day, that gave an actual time line.

It turned out Ascension Thursday, unlike All Saints Day, was not a concrete date, it was slotted to occur each year 40 days after Resurrection Sunday. Which in turn was defined as 'the first Sunday after the first full moon following the March equinox.' March 21st, a date which recalled a conversation about both Dean's horror movie fascination and Michele's birthday for Sam.

He ran a rueful hand through his hair and shook his head at the coincidence. Began the research and calculations, trying not to think of his brother or the New Zealand woman. Right now he felt cut adrift, uncertain how to approach or deal with either, so he did what he usually did, buried himself in the constant simplicity of research.

Working out a date, 40 days after the first full moon subsequent to March 21st in the year 1347 would take some work. It however was something real and gave a sense of progress, would help him figure out how much longer they had before Kelly's child would be born, a question that haunted his thoughts with increasing frequency.

….

Sam was seated at the map table staring fixedly at his folded hands. As he got closer, Dean realised the map-table was covered in scrawled writing, weird symbols  
and calculations.

"Wooh! What's up, Beautiful Mind?" He leaned closer to examine what Sam had been working on.

"I guess… I just figured we can't exactly track Dagon, so I've been reading up on Nephilim, trying to figure out how much time we have before –"

"'Lil Lucifer pops?"

"Yeah." Sam guestered to his calculation. "Okay, so we know Kelly got pregnant sometime in early December. According to the lore, Nephilim don't need 9 months to get to full term, so I think she will be giving birth around…" he tapped the white board marker against a grid of numbers, most of which were crossed out. The 18 was circled "May 18th…Which means –"

"We have less than a month to find her." Dean finished his brother's sentence..

"Yeah, and exactly no idea where to start." Sam grimaced and licked his lips.

Suddenly Dean noticed that his right palm was resting square over the two purple blobs that represented Mitch's country on the map table. Remembered Mitch talking about Kelly and her child, explaining that a simple abortion wasn't on the cards.

"Okay, but even if we do find her, what then?"

Sam looked pensive as if his thoughts were also going similar places. He pulled a face and shook his head. "I don't know. I mean, I-I …"

Suddenly the sound of the bunkers door opening made them both look up. A figure in a familiar tan trench coat stepped through.

"Cas!" Sam burst out from beside him, coming to his feet.

"Hello." The angel greeted as if he hadn't dropped off the radar for a month.

"Hey. You're all right. Um – Where have you been?" Sam asked breathlessly.

Dean shook himself out of his paralysis. "Let me rephrase that for Sam. _Where the hell have you been?_ And why have you ignored our phone calls?"

"Where I was, the – the reception was, uh, poor."

"No bars?" He spat incredulously looking at his brother. "No bars. That's his excuse. Wow!"

"I was in Heaven." Castiel admitted reluctantly, "I was working with the angels. When I saw Dagon had captured Kelly, I-I thought they could help."

"And?" Sam asked

Castiel shook his head and looked away. "Nothing."

"Well, at least you're back." Sam did his usual conciliatory thing. "We're glad you're back." He gave the angel a hopeful, kicked puppy smile.

"Really?" Dean flared, Sam looked round at him and the stupid conciliatory smile dropped off his face. "No! I'm sorry. Okay, 'cause while you were striking out in Heaven, we had a shot at Dagon, and we lost." He fumed at the angel. All the worry and frustration of the past few weeks spilling out like bile.

"I know. I received your messages." Cas studied his shoes.

"Oh, you did! – You did receive the messages? Okay, that's good."

"Dean..."

"So not only were you ditching us, but you were also ignoring us? That's great. 'Cause we really could've used the backup. But, uh, you were too busy with, um..." the elder Winchester clicked his fingers "What was it? _**Nothing?"**_

"Dean, I –"

"What the hell is wrong with you, man!?" Dean stared at the angel, and again Castiel dropped his eyes, standing silent.  
Somehow that just made him angrier… Dean knew, he'd vented at the people who mattered to him far to much lately. Hadn't even repaired things with Sam and now he was nuking Cas. He knew he needed to stop. Even if the angel deserved his ass handed to him.  
"You know, _whatever_. That's…" laughed humourlessly "… Yeah. Welcome back." It was either walk away or he'd keep tearing strips off everyone..

"Dean, y—" he heard Sam call after him, but knew better than to stop.

….

Dean walked away, and Sam watched the angel's shoulders droop further, as if another burden had been placed on him.

"Cas, you okay?"

The angel sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck looking pained.

"No." He replied in a defeated voice.

"Come on Cas you know Dean doesn't mean it..." He reconsidered. "Okay — maybe he does… But it's just things with Kelly and Dagon…"

"Yes, I know… It is not Dean… well mostly not Dean… I - I am… troubled. Some of the things I —.

I learned information whilst in Heaven... some of which was ... unsettling."

"Info' like?"

"Amongst other things, that my brothers and sisters have committed atrocities against The Lord's favoured. Innocents He tasked us to protect."

"I-I don't understand Cas."

"Whilst in Heaven I took the opportunity to further investigate the topic you queried me about. Prophets. The emergence of Donatello Redfield raised some questions, I believed when we spoke that Donatello was dead."

"Donatello isn't dead?"

"It appears he is alive," the angel answered gravely. "I cannot locate him, however."

"Cas that's _good_ news! Maybe you can't track him with your angel mojo. But we can track him down, you know… uhh … old school. If we can find Donatello, we still have the demon tablet… it's got to mention Princes of Hell. We can find a way to track down Dagon … and Kelly…"

"Sam, because I cannot locate him, but his death is not recorded, I believe Donatello is possibly now what may be referred to as a soiled prophet. And he isn't the only one."

"So, what? He can't translate the demon tablet? Figures! Are there more of these …uhm… Soiled prophets…?"

"In Donatello's case I believe it had to do with his activation or contact with Amara. Donatello is unique."

Castiel examined his tie studiously, avoiding Sam's gaze in a way that left the hunter increasingly worried.

"You said something before… about ... uhh… atrocities…?"

"Yes, it appears Heaven was aware of Azazel's creation of special children, before you were born. A small group of my brethren participated in what you would term 'an arms race'… of sorts. Azazel infected selected human infants with his blood. In response, an attempt was made to create a heavenly equivalent, an answering part human warrior, imbibed with celestial energy… infants that were fed angelic grace."

"What? You can do that?"

"The simple answer is no, all the infants died - quite horribly…"

"Why do I have a feeling that wasn't the end of it."

The angel nodded. "Prophets. A prophet's purpose is to be a conduit of God's word to humanity, they might after a fashion, be considered vessels, or potential vessels of God's will. As such they are capable of withstanding … much more than other humans."

The Angel stopped again. "What was done... it is an abomination far greater in magnitude than what Azazel did to you."

"They fed proto prophets angelic grace? An angel willingly gave up a portion of their grace for that? Did it work?"

"Not willingly, no. As a traitor, one who failed in his duty and allowed Lucifer to enter the garden of Eden the angel was given no choice about his participation."

"Gadreel?!"

Kevin's murderer. The revelation made Sam wonder whether Gadreel had killed Kevin as a kind of mislaid revenge.

"Yes. His grace was used multiple times throughout the … experiments. Those potential prophetic infants also... perished most horribly." Castiel looked away for a moment before continuing.

"The project didn't cease with those failures, however. It was determined that the blood of a Prince of Hell was the key. That it would behave as a catalyst or surfactant, allowing a human soul to absorb the angelic grace, without catastrophic failure of the test subjects body. Thus, creating the desired weapon."

"Sorta like drinking demon blood? H-how I did.. be- before I said' yes' to Lucifer?" Sam gulped and shuddered, cursing himself for bringing up the memory.

"Yes Sam." Cas looked distressed and Sam suddenly remembered he wasn't the only one who suffered possession by Lucifer.

"Where'd they get a Prince of Hell's blood? Surely a Prince of Hell wouldn't …"

"Ramiel. You recall he stated that it had been a long time since he last saw an angel…? The rumours that Ramiel was captured briefly …. Appear not to have been rumours. Whilst he was in custody they extracted a sample of his blood."

"He wanted revenge? That's why he was so hell bent on killing you?"

"It appears so." The angel answered gravel voiced, staring across the war room.

Sam rubbed at the whiteboard marker calculations scrawled across the map-table in front of him. "How many of these weaponised kids are out there?"

"It appears almost all of those subjects also perished. Soiled prophets, like Nephilim, are hidden from my perception, tracking them is problematic. I was forced to search the records, then match them to records of deaths … the celestial equivalent of manually." Cas grimaced and Sam couldn't help smiling.

"Lots huh?"

"Most of the potential prophets selected were born in small isolated places, Baharain, Nauru, West Keeling island, Macquarie Island, Aotearoa ... Places with relatively small populations." "It was the one born in Aotearoa that proves to be problematic. She was not one of the 25959 deaths to occur in that country, in the year the trials were carried out."

"So, you think this girl is still alive?"

"That is my belief, yes.

Naomi had all the angels from that flight, the ones involved in the project executed. All except one, Sibiel.

Sibiel vanished 40 years ago, the year the possible surviving soiled prophet was created."

"So... the weaponised kid isn't a kid. But that's good, right? If this soiled prophet hasn't gone thermonuclear or popped up on the radar after all these years, the likelihood is she's either dead or not..."

"Sam, this experiment, this soiled prophet is an abomination. Abhorrent in the eyes of the Lord. No longer human. Something that has been twisted in ways you cannot comprehend, by my brother's and sister's hubris. Prophets are …" Cas looked upset "… _we_ were, supposed to protect them. It is beyond heinous that this was done to an innocent, one of God's favourites! If this blighted being still lives I must find it and end its suffering."

"But…"

"After we find and deal with Kelly Kline's child.

Your threat assessment is correct, Sam. Finding this creature if it lives, must take a back seat to the danger presented by Lucifer's offspring."

"So, if we survive Lucifers kid, you'll be booking a flight to Aotearoa?"

"New Zealand."

"What?!"

"Aotearoa is officially referred to as New Zealand on airline schedules."


	83. Chapter 83: Not So Amazing Grace

Chapter 83: Not So Amazing Grace

 **Chapter 83**

Michele shifted uncomfortably on the hospital mattress, swiped back hair tangled and stiff with blood, using the arm not nailed down by the IV, grimaced in distaste at the sensation.

Phil had attempted to help her clean up with a handful of damp paper towels from the rooms dispenser. But she was still a mess, her hair felt gross and her black pyjama top was stiff in patches, smelled of blood and disinfectant hand-wash. She felt vulnerable and unhappy, didn't have her glasses, her phone, or her wallet.  
Phil had left hours ago to pick up Chris and make sure the other three got off to school okay.

Any moment now, another nurse or doctor would come in and put their hands on her like she was public property. None of them asked permission or introduced themselves. She'd always hated it when strangers touched her, but needed to sit there and let them.

Once upon a time she'd been one of them. The girl in the lab coat, upstairs in the lab.  
Now she was in a hospital bed, a patient, they treated her like she knew nothing.  
They all stared through her, like she was just a lump of meat, made for them to practice on.

Could they tell she wasn't telling them everything? Did they suspect her of misleading them?  
Probably, if they'd ever watched House MD, he said patients always lie.  
They probably thought she'd been taking some designer drug or suffered from Munchhausen's.

They looked at her in puzzlement or with a vague kind of resentment, because she wasn't following the rules.

But she couldn't tell them, 'there's something else beside science at work in the world, no number of blood tests are going to explain this.  
There is a supernatural world that lurks just below the skin of normal.'

If she tried to explain, they'd say she was nuts.

She couldn't refuse to play the game or refuse the tests. No matter how pointless they all were.  
Normal people didn't refuse tests, they were good, obedient. They sat there anxiously hoping for answers, they trusted the doctors to help them.  
She did need the transfusions and the rest of it to keep her on her feet, but she'd long ago given up on the idea of being cured, or having a pretty explanation of why.  
The medical professionals were trained to seek answers. It wasn't their fault, they didn't have the tools to find the answers to this, there weren't any within the realms of medicine or science.

She shouldn't hold it against them. Once upon a time she'd been one of them.

So, she pasted on a smile and made the expected polite noises when the phlebotomist came in with a blue topped tube to draw an APTT. When a far-to-young-looking nurse took her blood pressure, oxygen saturation and temperature, again. Most of them would go off shift and never think of her again.

All except for the large Samoan nurse who had been there when she'd first arrived, the one who had been standing over her fiddling with her IV line, when she'd had a vision.  
Chances were that nurse had seen her eyes light up. Michele hadn't seen her much since, but when she did, the woman edged round the room nervously, side-eyeing her constantly, kept dropping things.

What ever the woman had seen, her conclusions on it was clear; she looked scared, must think her patient was dangerous.

Michele wanted to argue, to explain, 'it was just a vision, I'm harmless.'

The vision:  
Dagon telling Kelly that her child didn't care about her, that he'd simply saved himself.  
That nothing had changed, that the Nephilim would be born, and Kelly would die.  
That Dagon wanted to shape the child into something that would destroy the world.

Thinking about it, Michele was forced to wonder if the nurse's reaction had merit.

Dagon was wrong about 'this child' not caring about Kelly.  
But if Kelly died and Dagon raised him, twisted him, abused him.  
Could that eager trusting blank slate, become anything but the killer he was moulded to be?

Her narrow view point, that suicide was never the answer, that it was wrong, and evil.  
It had been a knee jerk reaction.

Kelly had been trying to save 'this child' from all that.  
Save the world, by slitting her wrists.  
Killing herself, and her child, to stop evil killing the world.

Wasn't that an act of love? Not an act of selfishness.  
God knew that, didn't He?  
She believed that God judges the heart, not the action  
… but she'd just barrelled in with her narrow viewpoint and decided she knew best.  
If she hadn't interfered, would Kelly and 'this child' have simply drifted away and died, she had no idea if they would have gone to heaven, the Supernatural books painted things differently than she'd been taught to understand. Deep down she'd always just trusted people ended up where they were supposed to.  
Was the demon right, would self preservation, an organisms instinctive struggle for life, have kicked in anyway?

Had _she_ changed things?  
Had she damned 'this child,' by trying to save him ….?  
Had she killed the world… ?  
Had she killed everyone she loved, by interfering… ?

Michele jammed her hand against her mouth as the full weight of what she'd done hit.

Sam! Dean!

….Ohhh, Dean would want to shoot her for this! …

…..

Another vision: Sam reading that chapter of her fic, thinking about her….

… _It seemed obvious to him now she either possessed erratic powers, which she'd rather attribute to an outside source. Or was actually being manipulated by something and had been for most of her life._

 _She wanted to believe that something, was God, but was it? By listening to her, allowing her access to their lives was he allowing it to manipulate him and Dean as well?_

… _.._

More blood, all down her chin, all over the white hospital sheets, bloody tears on her cheeks.

Was Sam right?

So many people had done awful things believing they were doing good, believing they were right, all the way through human history.

The crusades, the inquisition, witch trials, blowing up abortion clinics, justifying slavery and invasion… killing people, creating weapons. All reactions out of pain, or fear, from uninformed narrow view points of what was good and right.

Those mistakes were why so many people hated Christians. People meant to do good, to stand up for what was right, but instead they hurt others.

The average German during the Holocaust thought their leaders were good. Hitler twisted the narrative, claimed the Jews had killed Jesus, they were evil and needed to be stopped. Millions died. Had she just saved someone with more potential for evil than Hitler?

 _Please God, No!_

If you could go back in time and kill Hitler as a child would you?

They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions…

...Who ever destroys a life, destroys the world, who ever saves a life saves the world entire.

… all evil needs to persist, is for good people to stand by and do nothing.

The seesaw teetered back and forth, leaving her feeling sick and dizzy.

"I just want to be good, to do what's right! How do I know what's right?!" A sob clawed it's way up from her chest, chased by another and another.

Bloody tears washed to normal salt water, then dried, before someone came in and found her.

They would only see the mess that she'd made.

…..

Sam closed his eyes and took a breath as Castiel walked away.  
He'd hesitated to ask what the soiled prophet's name was, hadn't told Cas anything about Michele.  
Just wanted some space and time to figure it all out in his head.

He flashed on the memory of Michele's face, the last time he'd seen her; all wide anxious eyes and guilty regret. He'd just walked away from her without a word to chase after Dean.  
Hadn't reached out to her since, he'd been feeling so mixed up, guilty. And maybe a little betrayed.

It made sense that she was this soiled prophet, it felt like that moment when all the pins slide into place when you're picking a lock.  
It explained everything. Her visions, her writing, even the dead fly. It explained the connection he felt for her, the draw he felt.  
They both had yellow eyed demon blood in them…

On one level she was like him.

Maybe on another level too… Gadreel, was he another thing tying them together?

Maybe a week ago he'd have been eager to tell her, toss it at her feet and say "there see, this is what you are. Your happy life and all your church services are a delusion. The God you adore, he let you be 'soiled' by angels, he doesn't care." He would have wanted to tell her, "Wake up don't be like Michael, all his loyalty to God got him was broken and locked in a cage."  
Now he's glimpsed inside her head, seen someone drowning and fragile, someone putting up a good front, putting one foot in front of the other and trying to do better. Like him, like Dean.

Cas had called her a weapon. an experiment, an abomination. Abhorrent in the eyes of her God. No longer human. Twisted and blighted.

The thought of telling her made his mouth dry, and his heart heavy.

How could he tell her any of that?

How did he tell her, you were special, you had potential, now you're just unclean like me? It wasn't a demon that had done this to her, it was angels…. Somehow that made it a thousand times worse.

And Dean, how would he react? Would it be Ruby all over again

…

Dean sat in his room, at his desk staring at his laptop.  
He'd started out looking for a job, a reason to get out of the Bunker.  
But because… Maybe he thought, it was because he was weak and pathetic, he'd opened up Skype, wanted — something… to tell Mitch that Cas was back, maybe …?

He didn't know.

Instead, he found Mitch wasn't on line.

She was always on freaking line, worse than Sam!  
Only time she wasn't, was when she slept.  
She ought to be up by now, 'cause it was a week day and she had kids, complained that sleeping was something you gave up when you had kids.

The only explanation he could think of was their little psychic stalker had seen his fight with Sam and was now avoiding him.

Which was just perfect, the icing on the cake!

Sam, Cas and now Mitch.

He screwed everything up!

He switched back to Charlie's search engine, keyed in the search details, stared at it waiting, hoping something would give him a break.

There was a brief knock on his door.

After a few moments hesitation the knob turned, and the door swung open.

Cas.

He refused to look up, Cas had ignored them, he could see how it felt!

"Sorry, Dean." The angel hovered in the door way hesitantly, then fished inside his coat, pulled out a cassette tape. It was the Zeppelin tape, he'd made up after he'd caught Cas listening to that god-awful fire and brimstone preacher, the one that seemed to infiltrate every radio band in the midwestern states.  
"Um, I just wanted to return this." Cas muttered and stepped forward to place it on the desk by his elbow, turned to go like a kicked puppy.

' _Damnit Cas!'  
_  
Keeping his eyes on the screen the hunter scooped up the tape and held it out.

"It's a gift. You keep those." He grated.

"Oh." The angel took it back, turned to leave, it all made Dean feel like a heel…

He took a breath. "Cas, you can't. – With everything that's going on, you can't just go dark like that. We didn't know what happened to you.

We were worried.

That's not okay."

"Well, I didn't mean to add to your distress. I … Dean, I just keep failing." The angel admitted. "Again and again. When you were taken, I searched for months and I couldn't find you.

And then Kelly escaped on my watch, and I couldn't find her. And I just wanted… I needed to come back here with a win for you. For myself." He added.

Turning in his chair, Dean tipped it back to look up at the angel finally. "You think you're the only one rolling snake eyes here?" He dragged a weary hand across his face. "Me and Sam, we had her. We had Kelly and we lost her."

"And if you find her again?"

"Sam's working on it." Dean swallowed and looked down. "Of course, he's hell-bent on finding something that doesn't mean killing her or her kid."

"Right. And if he doesn't find something? If you run out of time, could either of you kill an innocent?"

That was the real question wasn't it? He'd killed people before. Mitch had thought he was capable of it… but now? After she'd made him think, really think about it… he wasn't sure he was strong enough. Knew Sam wouldn't be.

"We will find a better way." He answered finally. It was the only reply he could give.

"You mean, we?" Cas gestured between them sounding surprised.

"Yes, dumbass. We." First, he was returning gifts, now he thought he was out?! They needed to keep tabs on Cas's Netflicks viewing. He was starting to sound like a teenaged girl. "You, me, and Sam, we're just better together." Dean found his feet and walked towards the angel. "So now that you're back, let's go, Team Free Will. Let's get it done."

"I'd like that." The angel looked down as if he was about to make some sort of emotional declaration of remorse.

 _Nope, this ain't a Netflicks drama Cas, time for an exit._

"Great. And I'd like a beer." He pushed past the angel and made his way to the kitchen.

…..

Sam was seated in the library with his laptop on his lap, though he wasn't doing much with it.  
Mostly he was thinking, he hadn't come to any conclusions about Michele, the chances were she'd find out on her own, maybe that was why she wasn't on line.

He kept finding himself musing about whether it was the yellow eyed demon blood that tied them together or Gadreel's grace. True, Cas had extracted most of it to attempt that angel tracking spell, he said the rest was burning out.

But he wondered …. after Lucifer had separated from him in the cage, he taunted that, now he'd said 'yes' to the angel he'd always be a part of him….  
Was the same true of Gadreel. He shivered and pushed the thought away forcefully.

It always seemed their life was chasing, trying to track down someone or something, trying to stop it. The yellow eyed Demon, Lilith, Gadreel, Metatron, Amara, Lucifer and now Kelly's kid… if only there was a spell, like the one Cas had suggested they use to track down Gadreel… could they tweak that spell to find a Nephilim?

"Hey, come on, man. Get some sleep, all right? You're not gonna find Dagon tonight." Deans voice made him jump.

"Dean, what if we've been going about this whole thing the wrong way, you know? I-I mean, we – we can't track Dagon, right? We know that. We've tried. But – but what if we can track the Nephilim?"

Dean wandered closer, pulled out a chair to sit across from him, propped his face in one hand, willing as always to be a sounding board. "How?"

He slapped his laptop shut in excitement and looked at his brother. "Well Okay, the baby's half-angel, right? So, remember Gadreel?"

"The psycho angel who took your body for a test drive? Yeah, what about him?"

"All right, well there was this, uh, there was this spell – Cas and I were working on it – to – to find him."

"Yeah, but it didn't work." Dean argued.

"Yeah."

"You needed Gadreel's grace, and he couldn't yank enough out of you." Dean was always the one to find the flaws, you sorta need to have the Nephilim before you can suck out it's grace.

Then it hit him… suck out it's grace.

A huff of derision at his own stupidity, "Of course."

"Of course what?"

He looked away as he chased the possibilities with a smile. "Of course, I am an idiot."

"Well, there's no argument there." Dean snarked, always the big brother.

"No, stop. Dean – the grace extraction. The tracking spell was a bust, right?"

Dean raised his eyebrows, didn't answer, just gave him the 'come on Sam share with the class I'm not following' look.

"But, but the extraction ritual worked."

"So?" Dean still wasn't getting it. It made him feel less stupid for not thinking of it, before now.

"So what if Cas used it on Kelly's kid? I mean, a-a Nephilim's just a human soul with angelic grace, right? So you remove the grace –"

"Kid's just a kid." Deans face went blank, trying to find the holes.

"Kid's just a kid. That way, Kelly wouldn't have to die, and – and neither would her baby." A small huff of amazement slipped out. If this worked he'd take it back, miracles could happen.

"Hot damn!" Dean looked at him with hope burning in his eyes for the first time in weeks.

"Hot damn! I mean, we still obviously have to find Kelly in the first place... And, it's just a theory, but –"

"No, no, no. No. That's – This is it. This is it, Sam!" Dean smiled, really smiled, his brother looked at him with burning belief, like he was a hero. And it hit Sam how much the thought of killing Kelly, killing her kid had weighed him down.

"I'll get Cas." Dean all but bounded out of the room.

Sam picked up his laptop again. He couldn't wait to tell Michele!

Michele!… The grace extraction! If it could work on Kelly's kid, it could work on Michele too, the angelic grace they'd put in her had to be the reason why she kept bleeding. If they could get it out of her…

Dean burst back in.

"We've got a problem. Cas is gone! So's the Colt!"


	84. Chapter 84: Entrophy

**Chapter 84: Entropy**

 **Chapter 84**

Sam sighed in frustration. "I mean, how did Cas even get the Colt out of the safe in the first place?"

Dean dropped his head and stared fixedly at the weapons bag he was packing.

"Dean, you – you put the Colt back in the safe. Right, Dean?"

"It was under my pillow." His brother admitted, face set like when he was younger and telling Dad one of his failures.

"It –"

"I like to keep it close." The green-eyed hunter muttered.

Sam let out a huff of annoyance.

Then took a breath, the braced look of stoic acceptance on Deans face ... It rolled back the years. A latent image of a smaller Dean, standing there between him and Dad, expected to take the lionshare of punishment and responsibility for everything, always; eternally sentenced to be the oldest, the one who should know better.

"He came into my room and he played me!" Dean fumed outraged at the angel.

Sam braced his hands on the map-table, felt his anger at both Dean and Cas wilt..

"Yeah, he played us both."

"Well, I say we find him and we kick his feathered ass." Dean tossed an angel blade he'd never use on Cas, into the weapons bag with a scowl.

"Dean," he held up a quelling hand, "Cas wouldn't have taken the Colt if he wasn't going up against something big."

After Cas' revelations, there'd been a moment of panic… after Dean announced that both Cas and the Colt were gone. But, Jimmy Novak's passport was in the desk draw where Cas kept it. That wasn't why Cas had taken the Colt.

"Okay, I say we find him, figure out what's going on, and then we kick his feathered ass." Dean reiterated.

Sam's phone chimed.

Even though it wasn't Cas' ring tone, a wild hope surged.

Pulling it out he saw Michele's ID.

"It's Michele." He glanced nervously at his brother expecting a scowl, instead Dean's lips twitched, then he lifted his chin slightly in a come-on motion.

"Hey Michele." He put the phone on speaker. "Dean's here too."

"Sam, Dean. Cas is okay!" She informed them brightly.

"Yeah, not so much." Dean grumbled scowling.

"No, I mean I saw him, he's in Iowa at the North Point Motel. Or will be, in… about 7 hours. I saw him checking in. And before you start telling me how my country is a postage stamp, I checked, there's only one North Point Motel in Iowa. I've emailed you the address."

"Wow ahh, thanks, that's that's… yeah, great …"

"Well off you go then. If google trip metre is right, you might be cutting it fine." Her voice thrummed with nerves.

"Michele… is that _all_ you've seen lately?"

"Where've you been Mitch?" Dean demanded gruffly.

Michele blew out a sharp breath, hesitated before answering. "I've been in hospital," she admitted, Sam couldn't help noting she'd avoided his question.

"Turns out the bruises weren't altogether nothing." Another breath, more hesitation.

"I _saw_ you two …umm arguing… about me. And Sam, I saw you... thinking about it and ...reading. I'm sorry, I never wanted… to be the cause of …trouble." She cleared her throat, sniffed and took a small breath sounding close to tears.

"Please just… go find Cas. I know you've both been worried about him. I can do _that_ right."

She didn't know Cas had come back, stolen the Colt and run out on them. Which meant she didn't know anything about soiled prophets. Of course not, that would be too easy. Sam stared at the phone in his hand, jaw clenched with dread.

As he hesitated, uncertain what to say, Dean grabbed the phone out of his hand, "Go grab our stuff Sam. My bags packed." He pushed Sam away roughly, hefted the weapons bag and headed towards the garage.

"Sweetheart, what ever you saw, that ain't on you…" Dean's voice faded as he walked briskly away with the phone, Sam didn't get to hear the rest of what he had to say.

For a moment the younger Winchester just stood there too surprised to move, then got himself back into action, headed to grab their duffles.

Dean didn't know a lot: why Michele had asked Sam to tip water on him, about the story she was still publishing, or the whole soiled prophet thing.

But for Dean to willingly deal with an emotionally distressed woman... that spoke volumes!

Their argument over her suddenly looked different. Dean saying Michele didn't belong near them, bringing up Charlie. He'd viewed that as Dean being pissed and embarrassed, thinking Sam had put him on display. He hadn't considered it might be because Dean was worried about her, that he cared not just impersonally, about an innocent civilian, a wife and Mom; similar to the idol that loss and Dad had taught him to worship, the catalyst that forged him into a hunter. But, about her … Michele, who could turn a conversation into a sermon or a therapy session. Michele, with her tendency towards ignoring all Dean's do not enter signs and treating him with a softness, the hunter often didn't know how to handle.

Sam had figured Dean had grown a grudging sort of respect for Michele's intelligence and constance in the past months. Knew he took a certain amount of pleasure from their verbal sparring and yanking her chain. But had been certain that his brother still viewed her as a kind of minor irritant. One tolerated for the information she could provide, a similar attitude he extended to law enforcement, and more grudgingly towards some of the Men of Letters.

Dean grabbing the phone and walking away with it just now, that showed a level of investment Sam hadn't suspected.  
It said Dean saw her as one of their people.  
That made Sam feel simultaneously better, and worse about telling Dean what Cas had said about soiled prophets.

...

Sam carried their bags to the garage, walked in to hear Dean's half of the conversation as he packed the car.

"Yeah well, I'm glad it didn't have anything to do with those pills."

"...Smart people can do dumb things too College girl." His brother scoffed slamming the impalas hood.

"…Whatever. Here we call that high school."

"Sam's back, time to hit the road.

Yeah… Well, first I'm gonna kick his ass… It'll make _me_ feel better… He coulda asked, just sayin'…"

Dean listened for a bit, then glanced across the impala's roof at him and smiled. "Yeah I know he is." He murmured softly.  
Sam hunched his shoulders, the look in Deans eyes said they were talking about him, great!

Dean side eyed him again and one corner of his lips quirked up at what she said next.

"'Cause he'd get a big head, then he wouldn't fit in the car… Mmm, ya better rest then," Dean answered decisively. "Dude can recognise a genius, so you oughta listen." He pulled his keys out of his pocket.  
"Sam, she wants to talk to ya." Dean tossed the phone, he caught it as they slid into the impala.

"Hey." Dean had turned off speaker, he didn't bother turning it back on.

"I just wanted to say you're wonderful Sam!" A much happier New Zealander enthused in his ear. "Dean told me about your idea of removing the grace from Kelly's baby, it'll work, I just know it! Thank you. It makes me believe all this can work out…"

"Its only a theory, if we can't find Kelly, or get her away from Dagon…"

"Yes. I know."

"Thanks for Cas' location, any idea what he's up to?"

"Uhm… Driving to Iowa?" She had that smart-ass lilt in her voice, the one he liked so much — Sam caught himself guiltily and glanced across at his brother.

"Yeah… I sorta guessed that much." He answered dryly, pushing his hair back, watching Deans face as he navigated the impala onto the sealed road.

"That's because you are an incredibly smart man, something your brother knows and is _proud of_ , even if he's too manly to tell you." Sam felt his cheeks warm at her words, shifted in his seat uncomfortably, uncertain how to respond to her praise.

"How - how long were you in hospital?" He asked finally.  
Not what he wanted to ask, what he wanted to ask was _why_ she'd been in hospital, but he knew she'd just give him a lecture on something medical. Michele might not lie… but she did deflect.

"I still am." She answered somewhat stiffly. "I'm refilled on plasma, platelets and red-cells. They're muttering about my lymphocyte count but letting me go home tomorrow."

He wonders if her wet Dean stunt had anything to do with it.

"… I think one of the nurses saw my eyes light up…" she speaks the words soft and hesitant in his ear and he closes his eyes and swallows. The draw of her distress tugs at him. "She was scared of me Sam…"

He grimaces, knows what she wants, she wants reassurance. But she doesn't want lies and the memory of all the special children they've met, the things they could do, the things that her chapter hinted at, Cas' words… even Deans accusations ... none of that will allow him to give her it.

"You'd be surprised how easy people move on from glimpses of the unexplained, Michele. They block them out, by...by tomorrow that nurse'll doubt what she saw." He chewed his lip before adding. "If you think about things in your own life, you'll know that."

A drawn-out sigh came from the other end of the phone.  
"Yeah… I hope so.  
About …that… You think I'm being manipulated? That I might manipulate you guys because of it?… I guess with the whole wet Dean thing… I can understand that." She speaks carefully, like she's choosing each word.

" _That_ was all _me_ , Sam…it was a stupid mistake and I'm _sorry_."

He hums in the back of his throat in response, unwilling to say anything with Dean sitting right there beside him.

"Sam, I think… what's in charge of my story was trying to warn me not to… That's why that chapter was called Lead me not into temptation."

"Michele..."

"My visions…I know you don't believe it's God, I know you think God left, and we're alone. But Dean killed _Death_ and people still die, Sam.  
I think, maybe, the manifestation you met … Chuck… He's just a tiny facet, a small fragment of ALL God is.  
God is... He's Bigger than that…  
He hasn't abandoned us, not really Sam. This… maybe it's like after Jesus ascended." A soft breath brushed his ear.

"Sam, _I know_ I can't possibly understand everything you've been through, you've suffered _so much_ … and you have _every right_ to feel angry, betrayed and used. But we aren't cut adrift."

Sam winced, he should tell her, tell her what Cas told him. Tell her it wasn't just him who had a right to feel betrayed.  
But he _just couldn't_ , not right now, not while she was in hospital.  
When he told her... he needed to look her in the face. It was the very least he owed her.

"Michele, I havta go." He forced the words out through a throat that wanted to clamp shut. "Get better, okay?"

….

Michele set her phone down on the bed with a sigh.

For a bit, after Dean had told her about Sam's plan to remove the grace from 'this child' she'd been elated and relieved, she hadn't committed an unforgivable sin after all! She hadn't damned the world!

Dean didn't know why she'd got Sam to tip water on him, but she could convince herself that Dean wouldn't hold a grudge, that none of that mattered.

But the longer she spoke to Sam, the further away he seemed.  
With every cautious word he spoke, it became clearer that the younger Winchester just didn't trust her anymore.  
He'd read her words, seen her half-formed fears, who she was inside. There were so many moments when she didn't like or trust herself, she couldn't blame him for feeling the same.  
Reading all that, it was probably like watching a documentary on blood diamonds then looking at your diamond engagement ring... It was bound to change his view of her, and not for the better.

That was ...okay. All for the best really, Dean was wrong about a lot, but he wasn't wrong that Sam didn't need to lose anyone else he cared about. She'd been listening to the doctors; felt weirdly calm about the possibilities they'd laid out with their neutral scientific terms.  
If she was wrong, if every vision was a toss of the dice, could snuff her out randomly. Then it was better for everyone if she walked lightly through their world.

As if to underline things, a vision punched the breath from her lips.

…

Castiel stared at Kelly Kline as he handed her a glass of water, wondering why he hadn't simply shot the woman.  
It was expedient; once he'd wasted one of the Colts only two bullets, failing to Kill Dagon.  
His brothers had died holding back the prince of hell, he should have used that last remaining bullet to shoot Kelly in the stomach. End the threat of Lucifer's Nephilim spawn.  
However, when he found Kelly chained in that basement and raised the Colt, she'd looked at him and smiled. Inexplicably he had found himself faltering in his mission, remembering Sam tell him how being gut shot was an extremely painful way to die.  
Instead of shooting her, he'd turned from The Plan, grabbed her and run, driven randomly for hours. His orders now were to take Kelly to Heaven. Passing through Heaven's gate would be a swift and painless death, for both Kelly and her child and neither Winchester would be faced with killing an innocent.

However, once he'd received Joshua's orders the truck had inexplicably refused to start, despite being filled with fuel. Castiel felt a pulse of frustration that his wings were useless. Relying on machinery was annoying. Earth was a place of chaos, entropy always a constant annoyance. Automotive maintenance was not something he'd had occasion to practice, but Dean often claimed you could learn anything you wanted from an online tutorial. He turned his attention to the search engine on the phone.

Michele jolted in shock and fought herself free of the angel's thoughts, discomfortingly aware of how very alien his thoughts felt, beneath Castiel's human exterior he was disconcertingly …other.

But things are working out!

Cas has gotten Kelly free of Dagon, they are stranded by a conveniently broken truck. Michele doubts watching a Youtube tutorial will help much, but Sam and Dean are on their way. They'll tell Cas and Kelly there is a better way, then they'll take the grace out of Kelly's baby and no one will have to die!

"Something happened to me, Castiel. I lost hope. I tried…. I killed myself."

The angel looked at the woman in surprise.

Kelly tilted her head. "I slit my wrists... I died! And then…" The woman breathed out a breath and smiled incredulously. "He saved me." She stroked a hand over her child, looked down with a smile, then up at Castiel expectantly. "He brought me back to life!"

"Well... that was the pulse." Castiel frowned perplexed. "We felt that in Heaven."

"His power, _his soul_ , surged through me, and it was _good_. Pure. I feel, _I know,_ he is good." Kelly's face was lit up with rapturous belief.

Michele was surprised to realise Kelly's pure adoration and belief actually seemed to hurt the angel.

It made Castiel ache as he stepped closer, thrummed through him in harmonics and twisted shards of grief.

Her face… the way it shone reminded him wrenchingly of his brother's and sisters countenances when they first beheld the Father's creation… the timeless time before…full to bursting with praise and wonder...

Castiel let out a breath, pushed the memories of that time away. Those times were passed, he was no longer that angel.

"Kelly, what your child did, that's a testament to his power, but it's not proof of some goodness. He needs you alive."

"Maybe... Or maybe it was a miracle!" Kelly continued unabated. "Maybe – maybe everything that I've been through, everything that I still have to go through, is happening for a reason. Maybe it's part of some plan."

"No, it isn't." The Angel argued. "I used to believe in a plan."

Michele is knocked sideways by the desolation Castiel felt, the sheer onslaught of his pain and the understatement of Castiel's words as he seated himself next to Kelly.

"I used to believe that I had some mission. But I have been through enough now to know that everyone is just winging it. Some of us quite badly. Lucifer, he's just breaking toys. He's sowing destruction and chaos, and there is no grand purpose at work. And there's no special role for you. When Lucifer took over Rooney's body, I'm sorry. You were just there."

Seeing how it broke something inside of Castiel to admit all that to Kelly, how he offered her what he believed in an attempt to save her from pain. Castiel's kindness, amidst his own deeply wounded brokenness, it touched Michele.

For a second Castiel held Kelly's eyes, saw her burning belief flicker with uncertainty. The angel dropped his eyes to his phone.

"There's another way Castiel. God's made a way… don't give up on believing." Michele ached to tell the battered angel. She pressed closer to the pair, infuriated by her formless form. Desperate to tell the angel, that Sam and Dean had found a way. "Noone has to die Cas, you're an angel Cas…. Please, you were made to protect Gods creation and you can." Michele reached out longing to touch the angel and make him see that he didn't have to try so hard, if he stopped winging it, if he let Gods other children help, he'd see. That maybe all he had to do was stop, stop getting in the way of God's bigger plan.

Kelly sighed, "I know my baby can be good for this world." She argued stubbornly.

"Kelly, if he's born, that is not something you can survive. So even if you are right, and even if the worst isn't inevitable, then who will care for him when you're gone? Who? Who is strong enough to protect him and to keep him from evil influences and to keep him on the righteous path?"

 **(?** The pulse of query caught Michele by surprise.)

Kelly laughed softly and looked down at her stomach with a smile.

"What?

"He just –"Kelly cradled her stomach and smiled, "he just kicked. Do you want to ...?"

"Oh, no." The angel demurred, looking down.

"It's not a big deal, Castiel. He does it, like, 20 times a day." Kelly grabbed his hand in hers and rested it over her son's football practice.

 **(?** This time the query was stronger

"Can you hear me?" Michele asked the Nephilim, Kelly's son.

" **Yes. I know you!?"** Michele was startled by how clearly 'this child's' words reached her.

"Yes! Do you remember me?"

" **Yes! — I am"** An echo of an image of her, then a lightning fast shuffle of everything they had shared flicked past in a moment.

"You learned words?"

" **Yes. My mother…We shared many things when…"** An impression of power and knitting flesh.

" **Someone else is here?"**

"Castiel," Michele agreed and sent an image, labelled Kelly and the angel sitting on the bed, the bump where 'this child' resided, as clearly as she could.

"He (Castiel) got you and your mother away from Dagon, she was bad...she hurt your mother" a memory of how Kelly had been chained, of Dagon forcing the pills down Kelly's throat rose and twisted in Michele's mind.

A surge of strong emotion flared, one that scattered the conversation between Michele and 'this child' like wind through a pile of autumn leaves.)

A sudden motion under his hand surprised and startled Castiel, he flared his tattered wings slightly in shock, would have pulled away, but Kelly's soft warm fingers squeezed his slightly in reassurance.

Reproduction was something that an angel inherently found overwhelming. Angels were as The Father intended from the moment they came into being. Not so with humans, within them creation and decay took place.  
Within Kelly's fragile human body, a moment of passion had kindled another being, had sparked it into existence in an bewildering echo of The Father's creative potential. Inside Kelly a new life was being knitted together, molecule by molecule, cell by cell. Something new, with limitless potential. Something both angelic and human… He could feel the thrum of _new_ celestial energy under his palm, but also the warmth of the child's human soul. The two forces twined together making something amazing and unknown. Despite his burgeoning fear Castiel found himself swept up in marvel of it, felt a halting smile curve his lips.

Kelly gazed at the angel's smile and smiled back, thinking that despite everything and where he intended to take her, Castiel was good. A good person, if angels were people.  
His hand rested so lightly over her son, without any of the hungry possessiveness and underlying schemes that Dagon gave off.  
Castiel wanted to kill her and her child, but somehow his touch made her feel protected. His startled blue eyes when they met hers so briefly, held a moment of simple awe for the life inside of her.

Suddenly Kelly's eyes light up, flaring with golden light – And Michele watching it, feels a thrill of shock as Kelly is swept, _**by a vision**_ :

A sandbox in a park somewhere, the sand inscribed meticulously with a strange intricate design, brilliant white light rising up from the sand like a waterfall in reverse.

Castiel standing between Kelly and some danger, warning someone to stay away from her.

A flash of consuming flames.

A half-finished mural of an apple tree and a rainbow on the wall, a baby's cot half built on the floor, Castiel looking down at Kelly earnestly, "I will give my life for your son, and I will raise him and I will make him someone you will be proud of."

Kelly and Michele both gasp in shock, and Michele spins away.

Returning to more spilled blood and an overwhelmed feeling of confusion.


	85. Chapter 85 : I Carried You

Chapter 85: I carried you

 **Chapter 85**

When Sam finally finishes telling his brother everything Cas said about the soiled prophets, he feels hollow, like an empty beer can waiting to be crushed between Deans hands.

The silence in the car feels charged, a court room, moments before the verdict is announced.  
Guilty or not guilty. Dean as the judge.

Dean rubs at the back of his neck, keeps his eyes fixed on the road as he drives, and Sam finds himself wishing for some of Dean's music. Anything to fill the moments ticking by, with only the base purr of the impala's engine to occupy them.

Finally, Dean's lips twist. "So, she's a fricking experiment?" he mutters. "Those feathered sonofbitches were subbing for Doctor Moreau, an' Little Miss Sunshine was supposed to be a weapon of mass destruction!?" He snorts in derision, "They were trying to make agent orange and got something that makes soybeans flower..."

"Yeah Dean. I dunno …Sorta I guess…"

Those hints in Michele's writing have made Sam wonder if she's like Magda Peterson, maybe she's been hurting people without meaning to.

But he won't mention her story to Dean. Silence on it is a mutual unspoken agreement. In this he is her lawyer. The things she writes in her story are inadmissible, self incrimination under duress. And he is in no position to judge, as far as he can tell none of those people are dead.

Dean frowns tapping his thumb against the impala's wheel, measuring out some beat only he can hear.

"What do you call a half-angel, half-demon hybrid." He asks finally.

"The easy answer is you don't, Dean. Neither angels or demons are capable of reproduction without a human intermediary. A human demon hybrid is a Cambion. A — a human angel hybrid is… well, you know that's a Nephilim.

B-but I checked, there seems to be no lore about human angel-demon hybrids."

"Score!"

"Score!?" Sam questions, grinding his teeth to rein in his agitation.

"Bobby's rule, you discovered it, you get to name it. Its your turn anyways, I got to name the Jefferson starships.

What's it gonna be? Cambilium? Nephilbion? …. Nah I forgot the prophet bit… Ha! how 'bout a prophilion. Her husband's called Phil, get it pro-Phil-ion

"She isn't an _**it**_ Dean! I can't believe you."

"Even _**it**_ is a damn sight better than calling her a frickin' soiled prophet Sam!  
Call her Nephilim dark, a smoke and light combo with a prophetic chaser … Call her late for dinner for all I care. But don't go dumping that soiled prophet crap on her.

I watched you beat yourself up for _years_ 'cause Cas called you an abomination 'the boy with demon blood.' Telling her what Cas said— Especially the whole 'abhorrent in the eyes of god' thing... Just no Sam, Okay?!"

Sam drops his head to his hands. Dean's right… and he's actually trying _not_ to be a Jerk.  
"Telling her she's got demon blood in her… that that poison is running through her veins…"

"Makes her pretty much related to _you,_ in some weird demon-blood-cousin-by-adoption, kinda way." His brother suggests quickly.

"Is that supposed to be the silver lining? Being tenuously related by _demon blood_ to me?" Sam rolls his eyes at his brother.

"If it makes you feel better, she can be my weird demon-blood-adopted cousin as well," Dean offers himself magnanimously with a wave.

"And that's something she'd want?!"

"I'm a joy to be related to!"

"I'm pretty sure the Cambell's would disagree Dean."

Dean grunts and looks pissed.

But Sam just can't minimise this… there are some things Dean _will never_ understand and being contaminated by demon blood is one of them.

They sit in silence for a long time until Dean shoves in an AC/DC tape and turns it up decisively, ending any further discussion.

….

Michele's green eyes snap open, she's been drifting in that twilit half-awake, half-asleep place that hospital time sucks you into, the waiting that happens in the space in between.

Now she's alert, knows the approaching noise intimately.

Her two-year old's yodel, the sharper notes of her daughters competitively sniping at each other, the occasional accent note of her 8-year old's voice woven in. It's the refrain that brings meaning to her days.

"Shhh you lot! Slow up, quiet down. This is a hospital not a zoo." Her husband's frazzled voice cuts in above the kids.

Then the door swings open and Johnny throws himself at her, the force of his fearful love propelling him across the space like he has wings. On the floor beside the bed, her two-year-old runs on the spot with his chubby arms raised in supplication. "Mum Mum mum," he chants, then breaks into tears. He wants up and she's not lifting him quick enough.

Shuffling Johnny awkwardly to one side, she leans over scooping Chris up onto the bed in an awkward one arm drag. Immediately her two-year-old buries his face in her hair, dialling back to sniffles. Her daughters wander in next and sprawl themselves on the foot of the bed.

"We drew our game." The youngest twin announces and immediately pulls out her phone to take a selfie of them all, if it's not on Instagram it didn't happen.

"We would have won if Vic spent more time watching the ball and less time watching b-oys." Her sister taunts rocking the bed with an exaggerated hair flick, a mocking imitation of her sibling's signature move.

Michele breathes a sigh, there are several types of girls in this world.

Jen' is more like her, serious and hard working, takes her responsibilities hyper seriously, worries about doing what's right, but is almost oblivious to peer pressure.

Vic' meanwhile is her butterfly girl, she's social and photogenic, puts in just enough effort, then relies on looks and charm for the rest, but is always looking over her shoulder, worrying what others think.

"There's nothing wrong with a draw Jen, playing soccer is _supposed to be fun,_ remember that.

That said, you'll impress which ever boy you think is cute, _much more_ if you _don't_ miss that shot because you weren't watching the ball Vic."

Phil enters and leans against the wall, glares at his teenaged daughters. "Yeah what she said!" He mutters and scrubs at his lips with the back of his hand, shooting his wife a begging look.

"The whole drive… the whole drive, through the car park, and up the lift… please. Please! Come home."

Michele smiles

"Come home…

Come home?"

She breaks into the chorus of a One Republic song

"'Cause I've been waiting for you

for so long,

For so long.

And right now there's a war between the vanities."

She nudges both her daughters teasingly as she sings, smiles at her husband.

"But all I see is you and me.

The fight for you is all I've ever known.

So…Come home…"

Now everyone's laughing, and Michele lets it thrum through and wash over her.

This is one of those moments that everything else is all about.

….

Kelly takes a stunned breath.

" **Do not be afraid, go to the gate, trust Castiel."** The words and images reverberate through her.

"Kelly?" Castiel peers at her frowning.

Then, there's a knock on the door.

Castiel stands drawing the gun and pushes her towards the bathroom.

Kelly ducks inside, then finds herself wondering what the point to hiding is.

"Yeah that's mine." Kelly hears a rough voice growl, then there's a thud of impact.

She peers fearfully back out of the bathroom to see a man holding Castiel against the wall, arm hard across his chest, right up in the angel's face.

"What the hell you thinking, huh?" The man growls, Kelly is surprised by how passively Castiel stands in the man's grasp.

Suddenly, Kelly registers another, larger man by the door, staring right at her.  
Sam Winchester! The sight of him makes her heart stutter.

She knows he isn't a bad man, but every time she sees him, things get worse. … She grips the door frame for support.

Sam Winchester's eyes widen in almost matching shock, "Dean!"

"What!"

"Dean!" Sam calls again urgently and the man holding Castiel turns his head. Kelly recognises him now. She should, he's abducted her twice.

Dean Winchester, second least sympathetic member of the line-up that enlightened her to the fact she was pregnant to the devil himself.

Dean gives Castiel a searching look then lets his arm drop and turns.

Both brothers walk towards her looking shocked.

"Kelly? –" The shorter brother asks as if he still can't believe his eyes.

"Hey." She says, stepping forward to meet them, trying to appear more nonchalant than she feels.

"Hey." Sam echos with a tense quirk of his eyebrows.

"How did you find us?" Castiel breaks in finally, approaching the three of them.

Dean tears his eyes away from her, looks toward Castiel, then glances away.  
"Well, while you were scamming me for the Colt, Sam put a tracking app on your phone."

Castiel gazes at Sam like he's hurt.

Sam glances at his brother and nods, his eyes flicking away nervously. "Cas, when you came back, you didn't even look us in the eye.  
You wanna explain what's going on here?"

"Yeah. I found Dagon."

"And?"

"Did you kill her?" Dean demands.

"No." The word hangs in the air and all of them grimace.  
"Uh… She's difficult to kill, okay?"

"Yeah," Sam huffs.

"You think?" Dean vents bitterly and Kelly wonders for the first time where the others are, the ones who were with them last-time.

"All right! So, what are you doing here, then?" Sam stops the conversation stalling.

"I…" Castiel sighs "My truck broke down." He admits shamefaced.

"Then – Then.. why didn't you call us? Cas, we could've helped you." He demands reaching out an imploring hand to the angel.

"I know. I wanted to keep you out of this. I-I was trying to keep you safe."

"You're not our babysitter, Cas, okay?" Dean mutters holstering the gun he's been holding. "That is not your job. And when in _our whole lives_ have we ever been _safe_?!"

"This is my responsibility because it is my plan."

"Your plan?"

"He's taking me to Heaven." Kelly answers, starting to feel irritated by the way the three men are discussing her while she just stands there.

"You – You're taking her to the sandbox?"

Kelly tenses. The intricate pattern in the sand, the brilliant upward fall of light, that's the gate to heaven.

"Yes. I'm ending this, once and for all. Kelly and her baby have to die." Castiel states dogmatically.

Kelly feels her stomach twist when she hears Castiel talking about her death.  
But remembers her son's words, holds to the certainty that if Castiel takes her to heaven's gate, things will work out as she's seen.

She saw the gate open, her son showed her the future, and she believes him with everything she has.

"No, they don't! Listen, we found another way." Sam exhales excitedly.

"And you would know that if you would answer your phone." His brother adds with resentment.

"Wait, what are you talking about?" Castiel frowns looking confused.

"What you did with me, with – with Gadreel, remember? The – the grace extraction." Sam explains, his eyes lighting with excitement. "We take the grace from the baby, from the Nephilim, and then the baby just becomes –"

"Human." Castiel finishes.

"Human." Sam agrees with a dawning smile.

Kelly frowns. Her son is going to be good for the world.

Castiel will raise him and he'll do amazing things with his power.

The Winchesters want to take away his power, ruin his destiny. Make him into just another little boy growing up without a daddy, he can change history, cure cancer, bring world peace. He can be all the things Jeff Roonie was never going to be. The Winchesters mean well, but they don't understand her sons greater gifting and purpose! They're scared.

"Wait a minute. That extraction, it nearly killed you." Castiel cautions.

"Yeah, but it didn't!"

No! She's been through to much, she loves her child too much to take _that_ risk, if a huge, fully grown man nearly died from this 'grace extraction' it's certain to kill her tiny son.

"Because we didn't finish it. We don't even know if this would work."

"There are kinks, yes," Dean breaks in. "But it's a plan. And it beats the hell out of certain death." He looks to her with a tilted head. "Am I right?"

Kelly looks at the brothers.

"No." She answers. Because if she has to choose, her son, herself or both of them…She'll choose her own death – Every-time.

Failing that, she'd rather they be in heaven _together_ … It's a bizarre thing, and if anyone had told her a year ago she'd feel this way; care more for this small boy she's _never even seen_ than for herself, she'd have laughed and said they were insane.

Now she remembers all those times her mother laughed. "One day you'll be a mother and you'll understand Kelly!"

Grabbing her coat Kelly walks out the door, because now she does understand.

"Hey, Kelly. Kelly. Hey, wait, wait. Wait a second, look. We – we can't imagine what you've been through, okay? But we promised we'd find another way, and we did. We found a better way. This can work." Sam chases after her, begging her to see. But she has seen!

"I'm going with Castiel." She informs him.

"No, Kelly, if you go with Cas, you die. Your baby dies." He begs her, pushing forward into her path, stands in front of her gesturing passionately, trying to make her see, he thinks she doesn't understand. But she does! She knows more than he does now.

"I go with you, you take away the thing that makes him special."

"How does that matter if you're both dead?"

"That's the only thing that matters." She tells him stonily.

"Okay, this girl has lost her mind." Dean commentates.

"Hey, Dean!..." Castiel scolds.

"Meanwhile, can we take this conversation elsewhere, guys? We're kind of sitting ducks out here."

"Sam's right. Dagon is after Kelly. Your truck is broke down. Why don't we get in the Impala, we'll head back to the bunker, and we'll talk? We'll figure it out." Dean agrees with his brother, Kelly looks at Castiel and sees him wavering.

"Okay, we'll talk." Castiel concedes, grabs her arm and drags her over to the big black car, tries to open the door, finds it locked.

"Dean!" The angel interrupts the brother's heated conversation, "it's locked!"

Dean tosses Castiel the keys and goes back to arguing with his brother.

Castiel unlocks the doors, helps her into the front, then climbs in behind. Tosses the keys next to her on the driver's side.

Kelly sits in the front seat, feeling worried.

"It's not supposed to happen this way." Kelly breaths mournfully.

She sighs, exhales sharply looking down as she tries to work out what's happening, notices the keys sitting on the seat beside her.

"Missy there are two types of people in this world, the ones that sit around saying how life isn't supposed to be like it is. And the ones that make it how they want it." Eva Kline advises from her memory.

She eyes the two Winchesters through the glass, distracted, still discussing her life like they'll figure it all out and she doesn't have any right to choose.

She closes her hand around the keys and slides herself behind the wheel.

"Kelly. What are you doing?" Castiel warns, just as she slides the key into the ignition, ignoring him she slams the car into gear and pulls out so quickly the tires peal like they're in a movie.

The Winchesters are left chasing after her dust. Kelly smiles to herself. She knows what she's heading for.

"Turn around. Where are you going?" Castiel demands.

"To Heaven… The sandbox… if you tell me how to get there." Because okay, she knows where she's heading, but doesn't actually know if she's driving in the right direction.

"Kelly, I can make you stop this car."

"Why haven't you?"

"Okay, why are you doing this?" The angel asks perplexed.

"Because he chose you, Castiel! When you put your hand on my stomach, I heard him. He spoke to me. He told me that even if it seems scary, if I just went to the gate, if I just followed your plan, that you would make sure he was born. Sam and Dean, they want to take away his powers because they're scared." Shakes her head mockingly. "But I'm not!" She declares.

"Kelly, you – "

"You asked me who would protect him, guide him when I'm gone." She cuts the angel off. "I know now. It's you."

"Me?" The angel chokes out. "That's… I.. I am not someone that you should put your faith in, Kelly!

I couldn't kill Dagon back there. I lost two of my men. I betrayed my friends — my family."

"Before all this happened, I was a cut-rate political flack in an embarrassingly unprofessional relationship with my boss." She tells the angel, almost laughs seeing suddenly how shallow and pointless her life, the life she thought was so important, had really been. Shakes her head, "I don't know why it's me. And I don't know why it's you. But I know that we are destined for something here. Something great." The shining belief is back and Castiel finds himself pummelled by it.

"Well, I wish I had your faith…."

Kelly glances back at him and smiles in blissful certainty.

"You will."

…

The bath is full, and Michele looks down at the water.

When her husband had shooed her towards the bathroom, told her to go take a bath and relax while he cooked dinner.

It had seemed like a marvellous idea... until just now, staring at the tub full of gently steaming water... now the memory of Kelly sitting in a similar bathtub dragging that broken shard of glass up her wrist won't stop playing in her head.

She shudders and turns aside, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, runs a hand over her own breasts, belly and hips, that are never going to be the same, now she is a mother.

The soft give of padded out flesh she finds hard to think of as desirable to anyone, the silvery web of stretch marks etched into her skin. Proof that she had once been the universe entire to three small lives. Just like Kelly is to this child.

There but for the grace of God.

She wonders, if she was in Kelly's place, would she have had the courage to slit her wrists, to kill herself and her child, to save the world.  
Or if someone said that they wanted to suck out the uniqueness in one of her kids, if they said one of them had a power angels, demons and hero's feared would end the world—(or even the weird gift/curse that was Johnny's Autism…) would she, could she, trust anyone enough (even Sam and Dean) let them take it away?

Michele shakes her head, steps into the warm water, slides down into its embrace and is almost not surprised when a vision comes as if it's called.

….

It is dark when Kelly and Castiel finally reach the little park. Kelly looks around and runs a nervous hand over her stomach, feels her son stir, hears an owl hoot somewhere off into the trees. Without speaking the woman and angel cross the grass towards the sandbox side by side.

"This is it?" She asks staring at the intricate design sculpted into the sand.

"This is it." Castiel agrees, looks at her searchingly, his blue eyes woeful.  
"Kelly, are you sure?"

She nods and takes a nervous breath." As long as you're here, I know it's gonna be okay."

Then it is just like Kelly's vision, a high ringing note, brilliant white light swirling and surging, tumbling upwards like a waterfall in reverse.

Michele is startled, the sandbox?! the gate to Heaven?! What are Kelly and Cas doing here? Where are Sam and Dean? How come they hadn't stopped this? Had Castiel refused to listen to them, decided in his rigid angelic way that Kelly and this child had to die?

When the light subsides, an angel is revealed. His face is kind and solemn as he steps towards them.

"Castiel. Kelly. It's good to see you." The angel greets, his voice is gentle in a way that reminds Kelly suddenly of the Chaplin at the hospital where her mother had died.

"Hello, Joshua." Castiel greets.

"I know you must be scared." Joshua says soothingly, Kelly nods tensely "But don't be…"

Suddenly there is a flash and the angel explodes into a cloud of ash.

Kelly gasps and flails in shock. In his place stands Dagon, looking pleased with herself.

The demon waves her hands to dispel the vaporised angel

"Ugh!" She complains, smiling at Kelly with predatory slow smile.  
"Hey, girl." Dagon purs.  
"Wow! You two got so close! If I hadn't made it here at the last possible second, uh!" The demon gestures in consternation, sucks a breath of horror.  
Then tilts her head with a smirk. "J. K. Flipped your pal Kelvin ages ago, then smoked him. I've been here for _hours_."

The demon steps towards Kelly, and Castiel puts himself between them, his angel blade appearing in his hand.

"You stay away from her."

"What, no Colt?" The demon demands, steepled her hands in front of her face gleefully.  
"Wait. You don't even have it anymore? Hilarious."

Michele blinks in surprise. But… Castiel has one bullet doesn't he? Why isn't he using the Colt?

Castiel lungs at the demon with his blade and Michele is stunned…

Dean said… Cas' blade hadn't worked on Ramiel, that Prince of Hell had just brushed it off, wouldn't it be the same with this one too?

Michele and Kelly watched from their differing vantage points in horror as Dagon beats the angel into the dust in a matter of moments.

"Look at him, your angelic defender." Dagon scoffs looking at Kelly scornfully.  
"You really thought he was gonna save you?" She stalks over to Castiel. "This sad, fluttering, aimless little moth?" The demon grabs the angel by the throat and lifts him into the air, raises a hand glowing with the same light that she'd used to vaporise the angel Joshua.

No! Michele gasps unheard.

"No!" Kelly echos.

Suddenly Michele's perspective changes, she _is_ Kelly.

 **(? I am?** This child questions stirring and flexing within Kelly's body sensing her presence.

Michele's shocked mind spills the nightmare scene out to him like a wail of distress.

This child reaches out, like he's somehow placing his tiny hand in hers, witnessing it helpless together, they steady each other to endure.)

Suddenly an engine revs and headlights splash crazily over scene, the doors of a truck that's suddenly gatecrashing the drama fling open and a man spills out, followed by another.

The first man raises a gun and begins firing at the demon.

The man empties the gun's whole clip into Dagon.

It does little more than distract the demon.

But distraction is enough. The Prince of Hell tosses the angel aside turns and charges at the man as he reloads. Dagon backhands the man into a park bench, it splinters and collapses under the impact of his body.

Suddenly both Kelly and Michele recognise Sam Winchester, lying stunned and gasping in the wreckage.

Dagon stands with her back to Kelly, then suddenly she vanishes.

Kelly and her invisible hitchhiker find themselves staring straight into Dean Winchester's raised gun.

Without warning Dagon reappears beside Dean, he must read Kelly's face, turns quickly towards the threat.

But is too slow.

The demon grabs the gun with one hand and slams her other into Dean's arm. Kelly and Michele heard the bone snap from 20 feet away as The Prince of Hell backhands him away as well.

"Yeah. Time to take this off the board." Dagon looks at the gun in her hand disdainfully, holding it out away from her body like it's slightly noxious.

In her hand, the gun begins to glow and melt, a piece falls off and tumbles to the ground.

Dean yells out in protest.

The demon tosses the other piece over her shoulder like a used apple core.

"Okay. Who wants ice cream?" She simpers,

Suddenly Michele realises the gun the demon has just destroyed is the Colt!

Dagon turns back towards Kelly and smiles. Ambles towards her as if she has all the time in the world now.

Gasping and panting in pain Castiel pulls himself to his feet, stumbles towards Kelly, intent on continuing his defence of her.

"Kid, come on. It's just getting sad." The demon scoffs eyeing the beaten angel in amusement.

 **(?** This child choses this moment to push at Michele again. She doesn't know how to respond, simply opens everything of the situation and herself up to him.

 **The Bad lady!?** This child flares.

"Yes."

Michele thinks maybe that is all she can do now, make sure that if Dagon abducts Kelly, that this child understand how evil Dagon is, that he _must not_ let Dagon twist him to her plans.

"She wants to use you to hurt everything good and right. You can't let her. You have to be strong and brave." She washes him in her love and belief, a trillion memories of the beauty of the world. The good he needs to hold on to.

"Run."Castiel begs.

And Michele would have in Kelly's place, if only to lead the demon away from her two friends and the angel, but she is just an observer.

Kelly reaches out and grabs Castiel's arm, shakes her head. Michele feels the other woman's determination to stay and see it through.

"God please."

"Please God, save them!"

Kelly and Michele's cries seemed to come from one heart.

Kelly runs her hand down Castiel's arm and twines her fingers through his.

"Aw! Adorbs!" Dagon mocks as she comes to stand in front of the pair.

And suddenly Michele feels it… right here this child's power gathers, but there also something else too, bigger and wiser. Something that understands in ways this child just can't. Michele knows this power intimately, it is the force that brought her and Kelly here…

As one Kelly and Michele turn (with this child and the other force that brought them here) and looks up at Castiel.

Michele feels the power run through her and Kelly and into the angel through their intertwined hands. Golden light surges from Kelly to Castiel, up his arm and neck, light his eyes angelic blue, then warm gold. Along with it came images, some of them Michele recognises as the things she gifted this child… but more are like the visions she sees, only running too fast for her human mind to grasp. Chased along by feelings, and a soothing balsam of love, certainty and rightness that the angels broken hurting psyche drinks up like a desert sucking up rain.

Somewhere distantly Michele hears Sam calling out the angels name, and Dean yelling "No!" as Dagon reachs out a hand to smite the angel.

Easily now, Castiel reaches out and grabs the Prince of Hell's arm, stopping her, the orange power flickering in her palm dies.

"How –?" Dagon demands in shock.

"Call it a miracle." The angel grates, his eyes glowing with that golden light.

Behind and over Castiel's voice, Michele hears another voice saying the same words, it is a voice she somehow feels she had always known.

Almost as if kindled by the words the Prince of Hell's arm began to smoke then her flesh bursts into flame.

Within moments the evil is consumed.

Sam and Dean find their feet staggering towards the woman and angel in shock.

"Cas?"

"What was that?" They demand.

"It was, um... It was me." The angel answers "But it was also…" he looks at Kelly and she lays a wondering hand over her child.

"You're hurt." Castiel reaches out to Dean, places his hand over his friends splintered arm and heals it. Dean jolts at the sudden shock of howling pain in his arm being —- just gone.

"Thank you for coming to fight for us."

"Are you okay?" Dean asked staring at the angel wide eyed.

"I am." The angel nods, his eyes distant. "I've been so lost. I'm not lost anymore. And I know now that this child must be born with all of his power."

"You can't actually mean that." Sam breaths.

"Yes. I do." Castiel looks at Kelly and smiles "I have faith."The woman smiles back and the Winchester brothers are left exchanging glances.

"-We have to go." The angel announces brushing by the younger Winchester.

"Hey, Cas, wait a second. Wait, hold on. Just –" Sam begs, trying to get Castiel to listen, to understand that none of this makes sense.

"You have to just trust me." Castiel answers serenely.

"No, no, no, wait. Okay, whatever that thing did to you, we're not just gonna let you walk away." Dean flares.

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen." Sam fumes and Kelly looks at them irritated, they just don't understand!

"Yes, it is." Castiel answers gravely, reaches out and touches Sam's forehead, he slumps to the ground unconscious.

"Don't…" Dean begins as Castiel reaches out and does the same to him. Dean lies beside his brother.

For a second, Castile looks down at the two men, "I'm sorry." He says simply, then turns and walks away, Kelly follows.

Michele stays rooted to the spot beside her fallen friends until the vision rips her away from them, tossing her back to her own place.

 **A/N : Phew That was a really long chapter and I'd really appreciate some feed back from you fine folks on how I'm doing. Things are coming together.**

 **The chapter title "I carried you." Like so many of mine is supposed to be a double hitter. It's the closing line of the well know but anonymous work "Footprints in the sand." Which heck I mean… sandbox to heaven etc etc and the theme behind it … The idea that when life is the hardest… if we look back and see just one set of footprints it isn't because we are alone… it is because those are the times when God will carry us…. If we let Him.**

 **And also it is thus named because carrying is what they call it during that brief… sometimes too brief, time when your child lives inside of you.**


	86. Chapter 86 : Adventures in Babysitting

Chapter 86: Adventures in Babysitting

 **Chapter 86**

The sun shines warm on his skin, Riot paces by his side panting, enjoying the day as only a dog can. Sam takes a breath, steps onto the bridge, looks down at the water rushing below, then around.

"Amelia?" He calls questioningly.

She told him she was here only minutes ago when she called.

But now she is nowhere in sight … his heart rate speeds a notch. Anxiety and a feeling of confusion beat within him, wrongness skitters over his skin.

Where is she? Is she okay?  
The world isn't safe, he can't take anything for granted, even when the sun is shining…  
Even the sun isn't sacrosanct or safe … he's watched it dying… after Amara whammied Chuck…  
But they'd fixed it... Dean had gone … he'd thought that he'd lost him, again… but he hadn't …

But wasn't all that… after all this… ?

Suddenly the mottled dog lifts his head, gives a soft woof, then takes off running.

"Riot!" He calls after the dog, whistling shrilly to call him back.

But the dog pays him no heed.

He runs after it; worried Riot will get hit by another car.

Sam turns into the clearing and sees the dog and Amelia sitting on a picnic rug…. Stops in his tracks…  
No… not Amelia and the dog…

He takes a step closer, realising that it isn't a dog, but a toddler sprawled out next to the brunette on the picnic blanket...

The woman isn't Amelia… She's smaller, more rounded, her brown hair longer with bangs that almost obscure her face, focused as she is on the kid next to her.  
The woman tips her head back and looks up, green eyes, glasses, freckled snub nose that scrunches up when she looks into the sun. It's Michele.  
She smiles at him like she's been waiting for him.

"Happy Birthday Sammy!" She waves a hand towards a birthday cake, a scatter of brightly wrapped packages and clusters of food laid out, like a gameshow host showing a contestant what he's won.

She looks so pleased with herself.

"What is all this?" He asks taking another step closer.

"You've seen a birthday cake before, seriously Sam… _according to the lore…_ " She smirks teasingly at him from the blanket, "a family sings a song, shares cake, gives the birthday boy presents and just like that, the person in question is officially another year older … Dean tried to convince me you'd rather pie… but I've got his number."

He feels a warm embarrassed surprise that she's done this, wants to kneel and wrap his arms round her in appreciation, but the sleeping child lies between them giving him pause.

"Dean?" He asks instead, hands jammed in his pockets, shuffles his feet uncertainly.

"He's playing soccer, with the other kids." She gestures towards an open field and the raucous yells he has totally failed to notice until now.

"Deans playing soccer?"

"Yip. And Cas and your Mom…. And my horrible lot. They left me holding the babies and guarding the food, not that I mind… Call them in will you. Let them know you're here and that it's time to eat."

Sam wonders if she'll make them say grace like Pastor Jim used to, finds he won't mind if she does.

Suddenly the silence is rent by a clarion wail, a baby crying, but Michele's toddler hasn't stirred.  
She tips him a rueful shrug and leans over, drags a large cane basket closer, peers inside.

"Speak of the devil." She coos dotingly reaching into the basket and lifts out a baby…. Except it isn't a baby… he can see under the glamour … see the glowing red eyes, the twisted, melted features… the wings.

The thing pretending to be a baby turns its head to look at him and speaks.

"Sammy!" it greets in a mocking tone, it has _his_ voice, Lucifers voice.  
The thing reaches out towards him — horrified he staggers back, away from it and falls…

"Sam!" Something grabs at him and he hits out, impacting flesh.  
"Sonofabitch!" Dean's voice grates in annoyance.  
"Sam! Come on man. It's just me. Cas KOed us."

He cracks open his eyes, to see Dean squatting in front of him just out of reach.

Realises he's sprawled in the dirt, where he must have fallen after Cas zapped him.  
He's been dreaming and now dawn is lighting the sky.

...…

Crowley eyed his underling with a smirk.

"So how are you enjoying your return to the court Ronnie?"

The female demon's scarlet painted lips thinned, as she smoothed her shoulder length black hair primly.

"I prefer to go by Chirone, your majesty. Ronnie was something Ram— the Prince insisted on."

"Ramiel. Killed by his own weapon." The King of Hell tutted disapprovingly.

"Still…so few survive a dose of Winchester! Rumour has it, even Death himself found them fatal.

I, of course, have foiled them multiple times..." He waved a hand airily. "The brothers Winchester and their various hangers on are like my hounds, Chirone. Useful in their place, but nigh on impossible to turn aside once they have a scent."

"I wouldn't know your majesty." The demon's pretty throat fluttered with an aborted gulp.

"Oh?" Crowley raised an eyebrow. "I hear you are _quite_ fond of my hounds... But I digress." He waved a hand breezily, "I called you here for multiple reasons, chiefly because you are one of the few to have spent time with our late lamented prince. I was hopeful your experiences might supplement the efforts to track down Dagon."

The demoness slid from tense and ready to flee, back to smugly relaxed, in the space of a few sentences.

"Of course, I am more than willing to assist My Liege… Unfortunately, the Prince had few visitors. None of whom were Princes of Hell. He spent most of his time fishing, polishing his weapons and his _watch_." The demoness allowed a thick thread of scorn to show through. "He was a dinosaur, completely uninterested in the affairs of Hell." Chirone was not one to hide her contempt for her betters. Foolishly believing herself to be vastly more cunning than she actually was.

Crowley hummed good naturedly, it was no secret Ronnie had hated Ramiel and her enforced babysitting duty.

He turned away to pour two glasses of scotch, something very special he saved for underlings like this one.

The King of Hell turned back to the demon with his best favourite uncle smile. "So, I have been informed… yet my new dog tells me The Princes were created with a link to each other." He handed her a glass.

"If your majesty says, it must be so. Your knowledge of the ancients is unsurpassed, you subdue all who oppose you." She simpered.

"Sadly, the prince did not see fit to make _me_ privy to or speak of his communications with them if he did.

If there is any _other_ way my liege can think of for me to serve him, I would be most honoured." The demoness licked her lips giving him a smouldering smile and held his eyes with sinful promise as she raised her glass.

Crowley watched with a lascivious smirk as Chirone took a deep swallow, then began gagging, choking and spluttering.

The scotch was laced with salt, holy water and a special concoction of his own invention, one that prohibited a demon setting aside pain. It was beautiful, the way her wounded shock at being poisoned gave way so swiftly to the realisation that _he knew_!

"Manete." He flicked a hand, casting one of his bitch Mother's spells. Watched with real appreciation as smoke roiled between Chirone's rouged lips.

The overconfident little bint sat frozen in place, could do little more than gasp and roll her beetle black eyes.

Turning away Crowley picked up the binding link brand he had prepared earlier, dragged her chair round to face him with a gesture, then brought the brand down squarely, searing the sigil right into the demoness' left eye.

He stood breathing in the smell of burnt flesh appreciatively waiting patiently for the demon's stifled wail to die down, leaned over and spoke directly into the shell of her ear.

"I always love that moment when the traitor realises how truly buggered they are, don't you?" He asked casually.  
Pulled back to look into her eyes. "No…" he smirked, "I suppose _you_ wouldn't."

"You see Ronnie, when the Men of Letters sent Mother Winchester to fetch that gun, the one that only a very select group of individuals knew was in Ramiel's possession, it became apparent I had a traitor on the pay roll.  
That said traitor was _You_ was hardly an astounding leap of logic.  
I was the one that sent you to liaise with the Bloody Men of Letters, for that ballsup where their so called best hunter failed _miserably_ to kill a certain ginger haired Witch bitch..."

He removed the laced glass of scotch from his frozen underling's hand and set it aside.

"If you'd left it at removing Ramiel, I _might have_ let it slide... But then, then it came to my ears that the British Men of Letters were expecting to take possession of another item, one that I and I alone own!"

"How dare you think you can steal from ME, you back stabbing little bitch." He grabbed a fistful of the demon's hair and wrenched her head back, bellowing the words into her face.

He sent the demon flying across the room, lashing out with a satisfying rush of fury.

"I am going to spend some very messy and educational time, helping you fully comprehend how right you were… I subdue everyone who opposes me!" He chuckled darkly.

"— I'm going to leave you alive, for two reasons. One, so you can spread the word to the rest of the morons that I ALWAYS find out. You're lucky that Moose and Squirrel cleaned up your mess. Or your torment … would be unending.  
Get this straight. You are a know nothing idiot, leave creativity to your betters.  
Two, your only task is to contact the Bloody Men of Letters and inform them that your price has changed."

He stalked forward as his underling cringed helpless on the floor.

"What your heart _truly_ desires now, is information on all the protective warding they use … you will explain how you are suddenly consumed with a dose of justly earned mortal terror of yours truely.  
And. Need. To. Bury. Yourself. In. Some. Deep. Dark. Fully. Warded. Hole!" He punctuated each word with a kick to the demon's face.

The King of Hell's eyes flashed red as he sneered down at the demon on the floor. "I trust by the time you're — fully educated... there will be very little _acting_ required." The red drained out of his eyes leaving them a warm brown once more.

"I subdued the Devil, you puerile little twat. You are nothing! Less than nothing! Your entire existence beyond this point _depends_ on getting a legitimate copy of that warding for me. Have I made myself blazingly, undeniably, crystal clear?!"

The demon at his feet could do little more than gasp and whimper her agreement.

The King of Hell smiled to himself as he stooped to buff the blood off the toe of his testoni with a handful of her hair. Removing his jacket and tie, he rolled up his shirt sleeves, opened the desk draw, and took out an array of implements and a butcher's apron he kept for these moments.

Languidly he pondered how to begin, drawing out the moment, letting the traitor contemplate the pain to come and all her past educations on the racks.

It had been far too long since he had made time to … express his creativity.

….

"Sam!" Looking at the hunter's face on her cell-phone screen Michele belatedly realised that the Winchesters probably wouldn't care about her vision of Crowley. "...are you okay?"

Sam's mouth quirked, and he leaned his head back against the seat. "What did you see?" he asked patiently.

"Kelly, Castiel… Dagon… she threw you into that bench and … How bad are you hurt?"

"Unfrickin' believable. That's what she's worried about? Sammy getting' a boo boo." Dean snarked.

"Dean." Sam huffed shaking his head at his brother.

"Dagon snapped your arm, but _I saw_ Castiel fix you.  
The Colt got melted but that's just a _thing,_ which either can or can't be fixed.  
Dagon's dead.  
Castiel and Kelly are heaven knows where.

So _yes,_ my first concern is going to be how badly banged up Sam is, Dean.  
Not because Sam is my favourite but _because_ his back hit that bench hard enough to turn it to kindling. An impact like that can lead to spinal fractures. Ones that get missed because of all the other pain—"

"Michele, I'm fine."

"Anything short of death gets written off with you two." She huffed glaring at the screen. "Seriously Sam, I'm a girl, I know what 'I'm fine' means."

Dean barked a laugh. "Sammy speaks girl. Yeah.  
Relax Mitch, I checked, not a mark on him, guess Cas mojoed him when he did the night-night thing."

"Oh…"

Sam smiled at her. "I really _am_ fine."

"Oh… Good!" she nodded to herself.  
Then took a breath, bracing herself for the next thing.

"I also had a vision of Crowley." She tried to repress a shudder, feeling the rush of the horror again. "One of his demons betrayed him. He manoeuvred her like it was a game, trapped her, helpless, b-branded one of her _eyes_ … b-beat her and t-tort—..." She shuddered to a stop, too sickened to say more; wiped at her welling eyes, hating that they probably thought she was weak, soft and childish, but she couldn't help it. Every demon's meat-suit was someone's daughter or son.

"Michele hey, hey. No… It's okay. You don't need to… Michele… hey com'on d-don't..." Sam tried to soothe her. Watched her with anxious Labrador eyes.

She shook her head stubbornly, realising she hadn't told them anything that mattered. Took another breath and lifted her chin. "The traitor sold information to the Men of Letters about Ramiel and the Colt. She was going to sell them something else of Crowley's too."

Sam's eyes cut sideways to Dean. She realised belatedly, that Sam hadn't told Dean their mother had stolen the Colt from Ramiel for the Men of Letters.

Sam's eyes met hers through the screen.

"Seriously?" Dean vented from the drivers' seat. "Limey sonsofbitches looking down their noses at us, going on about their precious code, givin' is shit sayin' we're the palling round with frickin demons, an' they're doing the exact same thing."

Sam didn't comment, his eyes were hooded and remote.

"Crowley tried to get the Men of Letters to kill Rowena somehow. That's how the traitor began feeding them information."

Sam hummed in the back of his throat.  
"Yeah, sounds like Crowley." He pinched the bridge of his nose, ran a palm down his face and studied her looking speculative

"How _are_ you?" He asked, his brow pinched into a frown.

The way he was looking at her made self conscious, she rubbed at her mouth and nose wondering if she still had blood on her face.

"I'm okay, glad to be home. Phil's been hovering and driving me a bit spare, he's a fixer by nature, but he can't fix this, so, I get it.  
I wish I could just tell him _why_ … but, well, why's not something I have an answer to … and it'd just freak him out more…so…" she shrugged helplessly.

"He's distracting himself by hacking up plywood in the lounge, with a circular saw, at the moment. That's the awful noise incidentally." She knew she was babbling, but between Crowley and the way Sam was looking at her, she felt flustered.

"… pretty much every time he's off work and stuck at home, he starts in on some DIY project, usually with a major dose of destructive over kill. Sawdust, nails, screws and power tools everywhere...

He's forever saying he wants to take out the wall between the lounge and kitchen. And I'm forever saying hell no! That wall's load bearing!… If he had a grenade launcher like you do… I'd be scared to leave him home unsupervised!" She dropped her eyes, "not that that's an issue currently, he's sorta scared to leave _me_ unsupervised at the moment… But that's life, we all go through it. Anyway, I ought to let you go. I guess the fact that Crowley's evil isn't really news to you. I'm glad you're both okay, things with Cas, Kelly and this child they'll work out okay. Love you two—"

"No, hey Michele, wait on a sec, a-about _**why**_ — we kinda have an answer about that. And we… I…" Sam stopped and chewed at his lower lip almost nervously. "You do want to know right? … If you don't … I mean, I'd understand… I don't have too tell you now, it can wait til..."

"Sammy! Quit." Dean grated.

"Mitch you _were_ born a prophet, well, ya know if heaven had flipped your switch. But this group of asshole angels were freaking out about the special kids Azazel was makin'" Sam let out a huffing breath and turned the camera on his brother as he spoke. "They tried to make their own mega soldiers usin' angelic grace. Feeding babies angel grace makes 'em explode though. So, they took a page outta Azazel's play book, added demon blood to the mix… It worked, well kinda. With you, you didn't explode. So, score.  
You're a Prophilion. A sorta artificial Prophet, Nephilim, Cambion mix. The good news is we reckon doing a grace extraction on you might fix your bleeding thing.  
The bad news— you're Sammy's cousin by demon blood. Sorry about that kiddo, bein' related to Sammy in any way ... it ain't no picnic." Dean gave her a rueful grin and a shrug.

"Sam…?!" She asked, frowning trying to understand what Dean had just told her. "I was supposed to be a weapon?"

"Yeah… umm yeah… apparently t-that's what Cas said."

"Are you sure? I mean I'm… I'm the girl that can't even bare to kill the mice that the mousetrap doesn't finish off."

"I know it's a lot to take in…" Sam looked weirdly upset as he looked back into the camera.

"It's okay Sam… I mean … it's uh … cousin? Which, which… demon … not Azazel… how did they…"

"Ramiel." Dean answered for his brother again, "the angel was Gadreel."

"The one that …." The one that let Lucifer into the garden? The one that worked for Metatron, possessed Sam … and killed Kevin while in Sam's body?!  
"Oh…" she blinked. "Sam are you okay? I mean…"

...…...

Sam watched Michele's face, she looked perplexed but calm… weirdly calm.

He'd thought there'd be tears or denial, maybe some anger.

"Sam are you okay? I mean …" Was he okay?! Why was she worried about him right now, they'd told her Cas fixed his collision with the bench... then he realised, she meant because of Gadreel … huh! That was, yeah that was...

Then he watched her face drain suddenly of color. This was going to be the moment he'd feared...

"Ohhh Hell—" she moaned softly, covering her mouth "I- I donated blood for years — this demon blood thing, the grace… is… is it transmissible?" It suddenly hit him that he'd never once considered it. He'd donated both blood and plasma so many times, in College, even after, on the road, money was often tight, and it was a way to earn a few bucks...to help people.

He blinked in surprise. "I… I don't know. I don't think so, I've never — uhh thought about it." That was the thing that worried her?! That she'd donated blood.

She stared at him from the screen with wide worried eyes, clearly not reassured by his answer.

Then her face really crumpled. "Johnny and Chris … my boys, is that why? Sam is that why they're … _different_.  
I-I mean they say autism is genetic, but some of the things, about Johnny especially … they never fitted and… what if, what if, it's because…" She whimpered like a wounded animal.  
"Johnny, Johnny he practically drank my blood in the beginning cos he didn't latch properly, and they said a baby gets his antibodies from his mother's milk … t-they said t-to just feed t-through it if I c-could, t-that he'd j-just get more _iron_. W-what if, w-what if Sam… "


	87. Chapter 87: Lost and Found

**Chapter 87: Lost and Found**

 **Chapter 87**

Dean slumped in his chair and stared at his hands, felt too deflated to even get up and walk across the library for a beer. He glanced to where Sam sat, slouched at the table looking equally cut adrift. He was still clutching the chamise wrapped bits of the Colt, had been since the park.

Dean chewed at an already ragged nail as he studied his little brother, the way Sam'd been dragging the bits round, like a snot nosed kid with his teddy bear, really bugged him.

God, how had this happened?

Ever since Cas reappeared from being AWOL in heaven, everything'd been like one of those dreams, the ones where nothing makes sense, and everyone acts hinkey.

A little hand holding gave Cas enough juice to torch Dagon. Which'd be great news, if Cas hadn't suddenly turned into a pro-Nephilim, faith boy, unwilling to listen to sense.  
The power-up Kelly's kid zapped Cas with had to be the reason for the angel's abrupt U-turn. It must of brain washed him or something. Who said you couldn't catch something just by holding hands with a girl.  
The power sort of resembled what he'd seen when Delphine and Lucifer tapped into the hands of God, same colour, spidered along the angel's veins in the same way; Cas had been so hopped up on the power … unpleasantly reminiscent of when the stupid jackass decided to down the contents of purgatory and dubbed himself the new god.

Dean drew his hand away from his mouth, realising what he was doing. Dad'd always got on his case over nail chewing, they spent too much time with gross crap under their nails in the job, and it was the worst kind of tell.

He clenched the offending nail inside his fist. Breathed a small breath and looked across at Sammy.

"Okay, so last night...that Super Mario power-up crap? That wasn't Cas. That freaking baby isn't even born yet and it sock puppeted him. Think about it." Dean broke the silence, got to his feet and paced to where Sam sat.

"Cas said that he had faith in Lucifer Junior? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Sam shook his head, his jaw clenched in frustration, turned red rimmed eyes up at him.

"I don't know. I mean, look, this doesn't make any sense to me either, Dean.

But if we wanna have some shot at finding Cas, then we have to...I don't know…" Sam gestured effusively, nostrils flared subtly in distress. "Uh, try and think like him."

"How?  
Seriously. I mean up until now if Cas messed up, if he did something wrong, but he thought it was for the right reasons, I got it, right?" Dean paced as he spoke. "But last night, when I looked at him, I did not recognize the guy staring back at me." He stopped, anger and frustration trembling through him as he stared at Sam, totally at a loss.

Sam made no reply. Turned to open the bundle of chamise and look again at the pieces of the Colt.

Dean stared at the wreckage, deflating more, hands flat on the table, he leaned forward for a closer look. As well as being bent and broken, many of the inscriptions were melted and obscured. He _might_ be able to fix the metal, but it was the hoodoo that gave the gun it's value. He felt guilt clench in his stomach.

"Can you fix it?" He asked looking away.

Sam picked up the piece still attached to the grip and peered at it.

"…I …hope so."

There was the sound of a cell phone vibrating. Sam patted his pocket.

"It's not me." Sam looked at him questioningly.

"It's not me." He frowned back at his brother … looked around.

…..

It took a them a while to locate the source.

Sam finally found the cheap burner phone tucked underneath a book, held it up for Dean to see.

"Must be one of Mom's?"

"Hello?" Sam answered, listened for a moment, frowning.

"Alicia? Hey, what's going on?"

"Like Max and Alicia?" Dean questioned, confused by why one of Asa Fox's witch-Hunter twins would be calling.

"Yeah." Sam put it onto speaker phone.

"Yeah, sorry to um...Uh, Mary gave me a couple different numbers to reach her, and we thought –" Dean could hear Max in the background disagreeing with his sister.

Alicia sighed "- _I thought.."_ She revised, _"_ Mary would be down to help. Uh, be our backup on this, um..."

"You sound crazy." Max groused from the background.

"Hey, guys. It's Dean. Uh, you okay?"

"Yeah, depends who you ask." Alicia muttered, "Um, Mom was hunting this witch who's killed people all over Wyoming. Uh, anyway, Mom usually checks in with us, but she's sort of disappeared."

"Oh, my god. She did not disappear. She's bu-sy." Max sniped at his sister, again.

Dean rolled his eyes "Wait, so – so your mom is missing?"

"Where are you guys?" Sam cut in.

"We're on our way to Rock River, Wyoming. But Max thinks I'm overreacting, but I –"

"Because you're being dramatic. Mom's fine. Stop bothering them."

"Fine. Okay.  
Hey, we'll be ok. Uh, never mind."

"No, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Um..." Sam looked quickly at his brother, gestured between them both. Dean looked at him as he continued. "Hey, why don't you text us your address? We'll meet you."

Dean rolled his eyes in disbelief, a disbelief that both twins appeared to share. But Sam hung up the phone with a promise to see them soon, turned to face his brother.

"What the hell man? What about Cas?!" He flared.

"Dude, Cas ditched his cell phone. Look, Jody put an APB out for Cas and Kelly across three states."

Dean eyed him unhappily.

"Until that shakes something loose, or we get some …other break…" Noting Sam's slight hesitation, Dean got it, "…all we're doing is – is sitting here, banging our heads against a brick wall." This wasn't about Max and Alicia's Mom, this was just busy work. One of Sam's favourite things to do when he was stewing… and Dean would bet the gas money it wasn't just about Cas.

"Let's get out there. Let's..." Sam sighed, and Dean could tell he was reaching to bring out some emotional bullshit "…Their Mom's on a hunting trip and hasn't been home in a week."

Dean tilted his head, asking Sam with his eyes if he was really going to play that one, just to avoid whatever the hell was going on in his head. This had to be as much over Mitch, as it was over Cas…

But who was he, Dean Winchester, world class screwup and avoider, to throw stones?

He nodded and looked away.

"All right. Let's go."

Sam turned and walked away heading to pack or restock, Dean stood there thinking about Sam's Hobbit and how she'd been so gutted, thinking she might have infected her kid in some way, cursed him.

Was that what was getting to Sam, the uncomfortable parallel? Or the differences?

Thinking about Mom…

Dean pulled out his phone, yeah, he should call Mom… After all Alicia and Max had been trying to get hold of her, he and Sam had just fielded the call by default.

….

The phone rang for a bit, then cut to messages.

"This is Mary. Leave a message." Short and to the point.

"Mom. Hey, uh, just wanted to let you know that, uh, me and Sam, were uh, we're heading out on a case with those witch twins, uh, Max and Alicia. Um, I'll text you the info, but, uh...I know the Brits have got you running nonstop. So, if you can help out, that'd be great. Um... and even if you can't swing by… can you call me back? Just some stuff going down that's... kind of got me spun out. Be good to talk to you."

Dean hung up, wondering if he sounded as needy and pathetic in the message as he thought he did.

Dean eyed his phone again, felt an urge to call Mitch, tell her they were heading out. Check that she was doing okay with the news they'd dumped on her. Maybe ask her if she had any prophet-y insight on Cas, if she'd seen anything that might help them track down the angel again. But shook off the urge …If Mitch saw anything she'd call, and considering what they'd dumped on her, the woman probably needed some space, had more than enough to worry about.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket.

…ooooOoooo...

Dean sat on the overstuffed antique sofa, drinking _red wine_ and wondering how he'd let himself be talked into this.

It turned out the witch twins Mom wasn't actually missing, and now he was sitting here watching the twins and their Mom banter, waiting for Sam to return with an order of _vegan food_ (which better come with a side order, of double bacon cheese burger and beer, or Sam was gonna be hitching back to Lebanon.)

Dean had spent most of his life people watching.  
Always the outsider trying to find an in.  
At all those schools, into one chick or another's pants… and of course always hunting.  
Hunting had a lot in common with being a con artist. You worked out the _in.  
_ With the witness, the coroner, law enforcement and anyone else that stood between you and stopping the current monster of the week.  
But beyond that, Dean had always enjoyed watching people and working out the dynamics of the lives he drifted through.

Watching Tasha Banes with the twins it wasn't hard to see how much the three of them cared about each other.  
Max and Alicia bickered and competed for their Mom's attention, but it was soft edged, without any real heat, more a dance than a contact sport. So different from how things'd between him and a teenaged Sam, at the same age.

The reason sat to one side, smiling at the twins in affection and amusement.

Tasha Banes, every time one of the twins looked like they'd push the other a step too far, she'd step in with humour or a few words that rebalanced things. It's a Mom thing, Dean knows that. Mitch does the same thing between him and Sam, all the time.

Thinking of Mom's, Dean pulls out his phone and checks his messages. Swallows back disappointment, to see his Mom hasn't called him back.

Tasha sits down next to him on the couch. She's smiling, all affectionate exasperation at Max and Alicia, as they continue to argue good naturedly across the room.

"Expecting a call?" She queries.

"Oh…" he puts his phone face down on the coffee table guiltily, "guess not."

Tasha sips her wine and smiles at him, he picks up his wine glass again and takes a mouthful, smiles slightly uncomfortably in return.

"You know, I gotta say, you did a bang-up job with those two." He gestures towards the twins, who are now squabbling over Max borrowing Alicia's Jeep.

"You must be drunk." Their Mom demurs, love and exasperation equally apparent in her tone.

"Off of wine?" He laughs.

"Yeah." She smiles and tilts her head, "I did the best I could for Max and Alicia…"

"No." He disagrees. What he sees is more than that. Max and Alicia are hunters, but they're also kids, in a way him and Sam never got a chance to be.

"I got lucky…" she shrugs.

"I see how you are with them, all right? It's good. You know, they're—They're happy."

"Alicia said you grew up in the life?"

"Yeah. Yeah, my dad raised me and Sam, to hunt."

"And your mother?"

Dean looks away, "That's… complicated."

Tasha chuckles and turns to look at her kids. "Yeah. Family's always complicated.

Parents always seem smart and strong and perfect. It's only when you grow up that you realize that they're just people…" She gives him an earnest smile, then pats his arm and gets up and wanders back over to referee her bickering kids again.

Dean stares pensively at the little family in front of him feeling the ache of loss, memories of the fake life the djinn offered him so many years ago rise in his mind like an unquiet spirit.  
He remembers staring at a headstone, the one his Dad never had and asking why. Why he and Sam couldn't have what everyone else had. Why they had to sacrifice. But it's more than that, why can't they have even a small bit of what he sees in front of him, even with Mom back it seems they still can't.  
It makes him wonder what the hell's wrong with him and Sam.

…oooOooo...

Sam jumped at the chance to go into town and collect the food. Ever since events in the park with Kelly, Cas and Dagon, he's felt … so disempowered.

Then, when they'd told Michele what she was (Dean had done most of the telling) …

God, she'd looked so alone, wracked with guilt. Guilt that she didn't deserve. All he'd wanted was to pull her into his arms and hold her like he'd done with Eileen. But she was out of reach.

He felt so useless, so powerless lately.

When he tried to use words to sooth her, tried to tell her that if the demon blood and grace had affected her kid -which she couldn't know-. She shouldn't carry that guilt; she'd just looked at him, kitten eyes filled with something close to pity, told him that he didn't understand. Feeling guilty for that sort of stuff was what parents, what Mother's did. That Dean'd get it, but he, Sam couldn't, because he'd always been the kid in the equation.

He'd wanted to scoff at that, she was more of a kid than he was! So damn sweet and innocent it was frightening. But when he turned to Dean expecting him to be scoffing too, Dean had dipped his head, then looked away…

Michele hadn't meant anything by it, not really. She was upset, he was sure she was only focused on maybes with her kid's autism, as a way to avoid dealing with the other ramifications. But maybe he was wrong. Sometimes the gulf between them seemed more than the distance between countries, all he wanted was to help, but words, just words hadn't helped. It left him feeling frustrated by the impotence of the situation.

So, when Alicia called he'd jumped at the chance to do something, to help someone.

But the case turned out to be nothing, he'd convinced Dean to drive 7 hours for nothing.

Expecting Dean to sit and drink wine and eat vegan food with a witch tonight, would be pushing his brother one step too far.

So, he'd got beer on the way in, had his sights set on finding a double bacon cheese burger with extra onions, which was always a Dean approved peace offering.

Luckily there was one of Dean's favoured hole in the wall burger joints right next to the Vegan place.

….

As he returned to the car with the food; he saw it, taped to a telegraph pole.

A missing flyer for a man called Rick Walsh.

Sam was sure, the man in the picture was the same one they'd all seen coming out of the root cellar at the B&B.  
The one who was a little too interested, in their arrival and how they'd been looking at Tasha's car. It could be an old flier, Walsh might just have resurfaced after a misunderstanding; but Sam had learned, coincidence was rarely coincidence on a Hunt.

…oooOooo...

Michele is in the kitchen, baking cupcakes, a treat for the lunchboxes.

Her oldest kids are at school and her maddeningly over protective husband and pre-schooler have, ever so reluctantly, left her home alone. For the earth shattering amount of time it will take to drive to the hardware store, buy screws and drive home.

Humming to herself, she bends and slides the first two trays of filled cupcake liners into the oven to bake.

Behind her, someone clears their throat, as if asking for attention.

"Seriously?" She mutters, annoyed. Phil really needs to quit hovering and treating her like she can't be left unsupervised for 20 minutes… he's going to drive her bonkers.

She turns to tell him just that.

Instead of her husband, Crowley, King of Hell, stands in her kitchen door way, smirking at her.

"Hello Darling, love your work."


	88. Chapter 88: Little Chats

Chapter 88: Little Chats

 **Chapter 88**

Crowley studied the woman in contempt, usually Sam and Dean Winchester had some taste, this one well… she was another brunette, like Sarah Whatever, the one he'd hexed to make a point back in the day; when the Hell trials were the game de jour.  
Moose's standards must have slipped a bit, this brunette looked a bit frayed round the edges, needed the attentions of a salon, a stylist and gym membership. And to top it off, apparently had the survival instincts of a dodo, a demon pops into her bleeding kitchen and she's too busy with her baked goods to notice.

He cleared his throat impatiently, watched her turn, obviously expecting someone else.

"Hello darling, love your work."

Upon seeing him, her eyes seemed to grow to twice their size behind the lenses of her glasses, face blanching as her lips formed his name in shock.

Authentic terror at the mere sight of him, lovely!

He watched her back away until she hit the wall behind her.

"The look on your face Pet. Surely you didn't think your little tryst with Moose and Squirrel would go unnoticed."

The little church mouse took a shaky breath. "N-not a tryst. H-how did you find out about me, Was it Rowena?"

"Mother? Hardly… she probably still thinks mother Winchester is psychic." He scoffed, poking a finger into the bowl of chocolate cupcake batter, licked it clean nonchalantly. "Not bad." He complimented mildly.

The woman's mouth twitched. "So, you're here to kill me?" There was no stammering this time, just that little chin lift, he'd read about. Under everything, there was a bit of steel there, good.

"Straight down to business, I like that. I could kill you, snap my fingers - easiest thing imaginable. But … you're the goose that lays the golden eggs. Killing you would be a waste.  
What I really want - how the story ends."

"I don't know."

"Of course." He waved a hand. "But you can give me a few spoilers, can't you? Where are Kelly Kline and that infernal Nephilim. Where's the gate to heaven."

"I don't know. My visions don't come with GPS locations …I haven't seen her, or Castiel, not since Cas killed Dagon." Crowley fought the urge to raise an eyebrow at that. So, Cassie boy had got to use that other bullet, good for him. Wouldn't do to let on that she was telling him new news.

"…Besides, why would I tell you? You're a demon too."

"That's racist, Love. I help. I'm practically part of the Scooby gang these days."

She gave him a look. "I'm not your love, and you're a demon, you kill…"

"I kill? I kill? You bleeding little hypocrite."

Striding forward he caught her round the throat, tightened his grip momentarily until he could feel her pulse jackrabbiting wildly in his hand.

"Your favourite flannel clad _heroes,"_ he spat the words down into her face, "sent _my son_ off to die on that boat. They're killers too, don't delude yourself. And you… you know what you did, by clueing Kelly's spawn in to Mummy dearests little suicide attempt…"

Storing away the rage that bubbled to the surface, he dropped his hand, tucked a few wispy strands of hair behind her ear and patted her cheek lightly.

Turning his back, he sauntered over to dip his finger into the cupcake batter again. "I helped! Stop the bleeding apocalypse, kill Dick Roman, raise Dean from the dead. I helped! Remove the mark of Cain, stop the Darkness, save God, track down Lucifer, I've saved Castiel more times..." He barked an exasperated laugh and cut himself off. "Why am I explaining to the likes of you? _You think_ Lucifers spawn can be rehabilitated. _You think_ the Winchesters or _Chuck_ are going to sweep in and save the day."

The woman was silent for a long while, then sighed.  
"Thank you, Crowley." Her words made him smile, she was the easiest mark he'd ever played.

"Thank you, _even if_ you were Lilith's right-hand man, the one that talked Castiel into plundering purgatory. Talked Dean into taking the mark of Cain. Tried to use Amara …" He raised an eyebrow. Not an easy a mark after all…

"Thank you, because while you may be self serving and manipulative and you're _always_ working an angle …. there have been times… when you've chosen to help rather than hurt. Thank you for those moments. And... I am sorry, about Gavin."

He shrugged uncomfortably. "Kids these days, you work them to the bone, beat them nightly, go out of your way to teach them wrong from right… then they turn into sodding ultraists when your backs turned. I never should have taught the idiot to read."

Behind him the kitchen drawer opened, and he braced himself waiting for an irate hobbit to come barreling at him with a bread knife or something as equally pointless.

"Here," she offered, holding out a teaspoon "don't stick your fingers in the bowl, your vessel's dead isn't it? … that's sort of gross, and not very sanitary."

Nonplussed he took the spoon from her and scooped up some of the cupcake batter. "You do realise you're bonkers? I can snap your neck." He clicked his fingers, "like that and you're worried about _germs_."

"You said you weren't going to kill me." She answered with a shrug, retreated and began doing something with pieces of chocolate in another bowl. Her calm was an act, he could see her hands shaking.

"The Supernatural books indicate you keep your word more often than angels or Winchesters."

"Thank you! Fancy clueing Gigantor in to your findings."

She peeked a look at him again.

"Why are you here Crowley? What do you want… Most people review if they want to comment on my writing, and I doubt you came for the cupcakes… I _really_ don't know anything that will help anyone find 'this child.'… So why are you, the King of Hell, standing in my kitchen."

"You are a Prophet, a Nephilim and Cambion rolled into one pocket sized package…"

"No, I'm not, not really…The angels screwed up… what ever they were going for, some sort of super strong angelic warrior or whatever. What they got was pretty much the equivalent of post-it note glue! My super-powers consist of headaches, leaking blood and writing _fanfiction_...Which, let's face it... I'm useless."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a bottle of freshly squeezed demon blood. "I might be able to help with that… Moose could do all sorts of nifty tricks after a few nips of the good stuff. I'm sure it will pep you right up as well."

Her eyes fixed on the bottle, got wide and startled. Crowley watched her, smiling to himself. There truly was nothing better than the moment a soul fell from grace.

He waggled the bottle temptingly. "Come on Poppet, a few nips and you'll _**really**_ be one of the good guys, you won't be stuck whispering in Sam's ear and hoping he'll do what you ask.  
You won't be sitting on the bench wringing your hands and writing half seen visions."

"No!"She shook her head, took a step away."You're going to tell me the ends justify the means. But they don't, It's the same story from the beginning, 'eat the apple Eve, if you have the knowledge of good and evil, if you have more power…it will all be _better_.' But that's a lie, more power has only ever made things _worse_. Look what happened with Castiel. I don't need or want the power. If I'm supposed to do something, God, not some demon in a fancy suit, will give me what I need."

With a flick, he pushed her back against the wall again.

"No? No?! You don't get to turn _me_ down. I'm the bleeding King of Hell, Missy. That means I go where I want, I do what I want. When I say jump, they all ask how high, on the way up. You don't say 'no' to me. If I want you to drink the bloody cool ade… you drink!"

"Please…don't…" The demon stared at her for a while, enjoying the tableau of her held by his power, hair hanging down over her face. Her pleas were just the squeaking of a mouse trapped between a hungry lion's paws.

Then suddenly, something changed, her head lifted, her eyes filled with gold light and blood began dripping slowly from her nose.

"Crowley, I can't let you do this."

The grip of his power broke, and he found himself held motionless.

"Matthew 18:6 If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea… Not that drowning would do much to a demon, but you get the general idea."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "Let me guess Sam's snookems isn't home right now.  
Who are you then?"

"We have met before.  
If you don't know me, that is because you do not wish to know me.  
I am that I am."

Along with the glowing eyes, the woman's voice had changed, lost its colonial twang.

"The question you really need to ask yourself is, who _you_ are. And _what_ you really want. I am the beginning and the end.

Your end is coming Crowley. You have choices to make. Soon your sins will find you out. A time is coming when all your plans will fall to nothing; when you find yourself hiding with the rats. No matter how you play it YOU can't win the game you have begun, and the wages of sin are death."

"So, you, whoever you are, you're threatening to kill me? The glowing eyes are a nice touch, and the blood reminds me of something out of a Japanese horror flick. But let me give you some advice, the threats — they'd be more convincing if you weren't borrowing lines from a Sunday sermon."

The woman's hijacker tilted her head again. "Crowley, I am not threatening you. I am not willing that any should perish, even you."

"Really? There's your flaw. I'm a demon Love. I 'perished' years ago. As for the wages of sin being death?  
I've already spent my wages Darling.  
I bought myself a Kingship with them."

Allowing red to seep into his eyes, he pretended nonchalance as he fought against the power that held him fast.

The smile she favoured him with in response resembled one the very old give the very young.  
Unwillingly, Crowley found himself chilled, combined as it was with the glowing eyes and blood trailing down her chin; it spoke to something deep within his lizard sub-conscious, filling him with a clamouring need to flee.

"That was your choice Crowley, I'm all about allowing people the right to their choices. I only ask that you do the same… well not ask, really. I have to insist… I'll explain why…" The woman stepped closer, brought her small hands up to cradle his face, to pull him down as she went up on her tiptoes and kissed his lips.

ooOoo

With a strangled cry of dismay, the demon lurched away from the horror that was currently sharing space with a pint-sized hobbit housewife; his mind scurrying futilely, trying to find an escape like a rat, in a sinking ship.

Between one moment and the next, the millions of paths, the millions of choices and end points he'd seen, began to blur together and slide out of his grasp; leaving only jangling fear of the future.

The woman lifted a handkerchief, his handkerchief, to her face and wiped away the blood.

"I'm sorry… I said I would explain, but you were never made to hold on to the answers." She handed the handkerchief back to him, then patted his cheek lightly, he couldn't help flinching away.

"So many arguments over free will versus predestination, it's amusing really..." She smiled again and shook her head.

Licking at his lips nervously, he tasted the sting of salt and iron in her blood. It reminded him of the contamination Sam had pumped into him and he couldn't seem to rip out.  
The King of Hell balled the handkerchief in his fist and stuffed it into his pocket, smoothed the front of his suit jacket. Watched warily as the woman backed away from him until her back was against the wall.

She dropped her head and her hair fell forward to veil her face, exactly as it had previously. Behind the curtain of her hair he saw the gold light die from her eyes and the power that had held him in it's thrall released.

oo000oo

"Please don't do this Crowley. Please…" The little writer begged.

The demon blinked and glanced at the bottle still resting in his hand. Frowned.

Yes… it occurs to him suddenly, that force feeding Moose's cyber snookums demon blood could possibly be short sighted.

She was supposed to be some sort of artificial Nephilim-Cambion cross, if he powered her up against her will, who knew what she might do, he doubted she'd send him a gift basket of cupcakes for his troubles.

And then there were the Winchesters… They might just be a couple of humans, but, no one did vengeance quite like the Winchesters.

The only beings that got away with causing the death of the Winchesters friends, were of course, the Winchesters themselves.

Case in point, if the dumbass duo had been a tad more careful with their security, neither he, nor the others, would know anything about her…

He closed his hand around the bottle of demon blood, disappeared it into his pocket like a magician.

"Well since you asked so nicely, there's no need to rush things. You will be a dear and let me know if you hear anything about Feathers or Lucifers love child, won't you?" He placed one of his business cards down on the bench.

"I..."

"You will," he informed her with a quelling smile.

"Oh, and Poppet? We wouldn't want anything to happen to young Johnny, now would we? He's such a scrumptious young thing, a pedophiles' dream really, so very fragile and _such_ pretty eyes. You won't be telling Moose and Squirrel about our little chats, will you? After all New Zealand is a long way from…" he waved a hand, "everywhere. Unless you are someone such as myself of course, for me it's just..." He snapped his fingers and vanished, leaving her to contemplate the fragility of a life.


	89. Chapter 89: Victims and Villians

Chapter 89: Victims and Villians 

**Chapter 89**

Michele stood staring at the space where Crowley had been. Her mind numbly struggling to grasp what had just happened. Crowley, King of Hell had just appeared and vanished from her kitchen… he'd threatened…

Her mind shied away, then circled back round...

It was pathetic but pedophiles and demons had both only been theoretical threats to her. After EVERYTHING, there had STILL been a big part of her that hadn't understood, that monsters both human and supernatural, could touch her life.

But now, now Crowley had found her, read her fic, invaded her kitchen, threatened to abduct the person she loved most in the world. Threatened to take Johnny, who knows where and put him at the mercy of some other sick psychotic … human monster. Her last shreds of protective unbelief were stripped away.

"Oh God! Oh God, oh god..." The words spilled out of her mouth in panicked horror as the reality came crashing in, she couldn't seem to stop them.

Shock, it's shock, she told herself gripping the bench and sucking in gulping breaths around the words that kept falling out, breaths that didn't seem to contain any oxygen, no matter how many of them she sucked in.

Her panicked gaze landed on the yellow tupperwear bowl of cupcake batter. Caught and snagged on it… Crowley had put his fingers in there… she'd been baking cupcakes for her husband and kids and he'd just come... stuck his evil, torturing, _dead_ hands in the bowl ... and ... threatened to...

Unthinkingly she lashed out, wanting everything the demon had touched away from her, her life, HER SON.

The bowl careened across the bench, toppled and fell, splattering dark chocolate goo across the kitchen cabinets, like a manafestation of the threat Crowley had smeared across her life.

Something was in the process of breaking inside her, fracturing like rotten ice.

Months… years … a whole lifetime of trying to be good, trying to love and serve God, do what was right. And this is what it got her?!

She could stand writing the story, she could stand bleeding to death by inches, she could take the visions the pain and the trauma.

She could even take being a fucking experiment...

But not that… demon, threatening Johnny!

Johnny was hers! She'd payed and payed and payed, and she could keep doing it.

But Johnny… Johnny, wasn't currency she would pay!

"God, you need to hear me. I can't! I won't!" She rasped finally, still staring at the goo. "Not my son, it's too much!

I _know_ I love him too much.  
I know I always have.  
But what do you expect? After everything… he's _my_ _son_! He's just a little boy and I'm his mother, his whole world.

He trusts _you_ God.  
Believed me, when I told him all those times. That. You. Love. Him.  
I told him, you love him like I do. That you only want good things for him and you'll keep him safe.

And I'm going to keep him safe … If I have to choose …That's my choice … Do you get that God?" Her hand found and clenched around the business card Crowley had left.

"I _have_ to keep him safe! Nothing else matters, not to me... I'll do what I have to… _I know_ Crowley's a demon. I know he's _evil_ ... maybe, maybe that's why you gave me all those visions… but he threatened _Johnny_!

I'm not Abraham, I'm not Hannah, I'm not Job … and I'm NOT John or Mary Winchester!

I can't… Okay?!" It was a cracked wail, half choked out around racking sobs.

"Johnny's mine, MINE! He's not some bargaining chip in your game of angels and demons.

I can live with Johnny being different. I can live with _me_ being an experiment. I _can_ live with it if he's different because of what they did to me. I can even find a way to forgive all of that…

I'll write your damn story, I'll live with the rest of the crap.

I'll _die for you_ , if that's what you want!….

But if you think I'm going to choose anyone or anything over Johnny, even _YOU!_ …

Y-you're wrong…do you hear me God?!

I tell people you are good and kind and just…. But if you expect me to let that demon touch my little boy, let it t-take him… a-and give him to some animal that'll h-hurt him… That's… that's it!

D-do you hear me? I don't care if you made me, or him or the entire fucking world! Anything touches him, and you won't be my God anymore! I won't write another bloody word for you… and if that kills me, you'll only have yourself to blame!"

…

Phil Chadwick and his two-year-old son got home from the hardware store a few minutes later and found Michele on her hands and knees sobbing and wiping up spilled cupcake batter.

The sight of her tears stopped him in his tracks, drowning him in trepidation, a fear of saying or doing the wrong thing, of making it all worse for her somehow.

Her tears weren't over the spill, though she'd deny it.  
The transfusions, the stay in hospital, the specialists foreboding words… she'd taken it all so damned calmly. Now, it looked like her calm facade was finally cracking.

Taking the cloth out of her hands, setting it in the bowl, he wrapped his arms round her without a word.

Held and rocked her, as she cried herself out. Worrying that the emotional collapse was a herald of worse things happening inside, he smoothed her hair and struggled against the sick feeling that he was out of his depth, helpless to make things right for her, himself and their children. Closed his eyes and prayed.

…oooOooo…

Sam huffed a sigh, snatching another glance at his brother's clenched jaw and tensed muscles. All the signs were there. Dean was blaming himself, second guessing shooting the borrower witch before Max could accept the burden of the witch's power and bargain away his soul.

The thing they'd met, and thought was the twin's mother, wasn't.

It looked and talked and remembered like Tasha Banes. But it had been a fake, a doll made out of sticks, string and the real Tasha Banes dead heart; all animated by witch craft.

Checking out the root cellar, they'd found the bodies of Tasha Banes, Rick Walsh and Andy who ran the B&B, all with their hearts ripped out.  
They'd been dead, turned into the nightmare stick dolls well before they'd even got Alicia's call..

Sam dropped his eyes, stared at his hands.

There was blood on them, Alicia's Banes blood.

Because Dean may have saved Max Banes, but _he_ hadn't saved Alicia.

One of the doppelgänger stick things, the one that looked like Tasha Banes, had stabbed Alicia. Killed her.

Because he hadn't got her out of there.

Because he hadn't been strong or quick enough... He'd just watched it happen... If he'd just got her out of that room, away from the thing posing as her mother…If he'd just…

Dean shifted, distracting Sam from his spiralling thoughts. He watched Dean put his hand to his mouth and begin chewing on an already ragged nail.

Dean didn't chew his nails, only when he was struggling and conflicted.

The last time he can remember Dean chewing his nails was back when he was fighting his attraction to Amara, hating himself for it.

Dean must have felt the scrutiny, realising what he was doing, he grunted and jerking his hand away from his mouth. Clenched his fist and smacked it down hard against his own thigh.

Sam flinched.

"You did the right thing. You saved him." Sam tried to reassure his brother.

"Yeah. Yeah, he seemed super saved." Dean grated in response. "You know, I was watching them, this loving family. The kind we should've had. And now... just like that, it's gone." Dean kept his eyes resolutely on the road.

"Dean, you couldn't let Max make some deal for his _soul_."

"Sam, we do terrible things all the time, to save each other. I mean, that's what you do for family. Who am I to stop him?" Because of course, Dean sees it that way. Selling your soul, that's the fucked-up place love takes you, if you're a Winchester.

"Well, he's strong. He'll be all right." It's all he can say, he has to believe Max is different from them. That normal people get to lose a loved one, grieve and move on. The whole world can't be as screwed up as them.

"Yeah, I'm not so sure." Dean turned finally, looked at him, with all the ghosts and sacrifices of their past shadowing his eyes. Then turned away again, fixing his eyes upon the miles of empty black top that stretched out in front of them.

..oooOOooo…

Crowley stalked in circles around the demon supposed to be delivering a progress report on the search for Kelly Kline.

After the first few minutes he let his mind drift, after it became apparent the brown nosing, snivelling waste of space had nothing whatsoever to report.

It was infuriating that reading a piece of fanfiction written by Sam Winchester's dowdy little pet gave him more information than a legion of demons supposedly working night and day.

Digging a hand into his coat pocket he encountered his handkerchief, unexpectedly crumpled and stiff.

Pulling it out he frowned, seeing it was covered in dried blood…

Odd!

Odder yet, was the fact it the blood was human, not demon.

The black clad King of Hell crumpled the bloody silk and shoved it back in his pocket feeling a wave of unease. Then jerked his mind back onto the snivelling idiot before him, his unease transforming into fury aimed at the incompetent before him.

"How many times do I have to repeat myself? Find me Kelly Kline!" He roared cutting the useless little pillock off. "As a concept, it's ridiculously simple, as are you!"

"Please don't yell. I'm trying." The demon whimpered.

"I'm trying." He mimicked mockingly. "Well, try harder!" He snarled impatiently. "As if your almost-life depended on it!"

"Yes, my King."

"Bear down. What _do_ you know?"

"We know Dagon is dead and can't protect Kelly."

"Which makes your task even easier."

"We know Lucifer's son is almost due." The demon continued hopefully.

"Which makes your task more crucial."

Why did none of these morons he was cursed with understand how bad the _thing_ incubating inside Lucifers erstwhile mistress would be for all demonkind? There was no task more crucial than finding it and killing it.

"We know, we don't know how powerful he'll be when born."

"Which makes you an idiot." The King of Hell spat.

"I know that, too." The pointless sycophant agreed, sounding near tears.

"Apparently, you and the legion of demons that I've assigned to this task haven't been motivated properly. Follow me."

"Are you going to skin me alive, Sire?" The demon enquired.

It _was_ nice that word of his handiwork with Chirone had spread through the ranks.

"Would _it_ be that simple?

I have to remind you and your team of screwups of the pride of superior work, the thrill of pleasing me, and the gratification of living one more day."

Looking back at the demon trailing behind him Crowley found himself missing simpler times, the purity of the cross roads. Being King… management, was quite literally Hell.

…oooOooo…

"But what the world fails to realise is that a _villain_ is just a _victim_ whose story hasn't been told. Everything I have done, my life's work and my crimes against you, have all been for _him…_."

Michele bit her lip and stared down at the Chris Colfer book she'd been reading aloud to her son.

The words of the last sentence hit her hard. She didn't want to be the villain of her own story.

Under all the fear for her son, the anger at being outed to Crowley by the story she was forced to write; Michele _wanted to believe_ in Gods goodness, that there was always a way to do the right thing.

It occurs to her then, that if the author's words are right, she has to try to stop being a victim.

' _God helps those who help themselves.'_ ' _Missy there are two types of people in this world, the ones that sit around saying how life isn't supposed to be like it is. And the ones that make it how they want it.'_ The advice of her own and Kelly's mother harden her resolve.

She glances up into her son's eyes, marks the page with a bookmark and sets the book aside.

Michele looked at her son in silence for a long time, trying to work out what to do, he looked back, waiting; eventually, he looked away uncomfortably, maxed out by the prolonged eye contact.

"Johnny you know I love you, don't you?"

"You'll love me til there a no more stars." The boy agreed complacently, repeating the words of a song she'd made up for him, when he was tiny.

"And I never want you to be scared. But I also always want you to be safe… so sometimes… I have to teach you about scary things, so you'll know how to be safer…"

The child frowned and nodded, eyes flicking up at her face, before slanting away in discomfort once again.

Michele watched her son assemble and disassemble one of the beyblades he'd been playing with while she read to him, his movements too fast, repetitive and jerky, betraying the anxiety building inside his small body.

How on earth do you explain this sort of thing to a child? She wondered painfully. A child like _her son,_ one who lives constantly on the knife edge of anxiety and panic, over _normal_ things, a child who can barely process the everyday world at times?

She'd always been scathing of John Winchester's decision to tell Sam and Dean so little about everything … He must have known demons had an interest in Sam, but he had never taught either boy anything beyond cats-eye shells and putting down salt lines.  
Why hadn't he taught them an exorcism, or even how to identify someone who was possessed… ?  
Demons may have been rare before Hells gate, but not so rare that they hadn't wormed their way into Sam's life.  
How many times had she argued with her fanfiction friends, that John not telling them the whole truth, about what they might face was pure negligence.

Now that she was confronted with the tug-of-war between needing your child to be safe and wanting him not to live in constant terror, she understood the man better.

"Johnny, do you remember in the bible … where Jesus met the man possessed by unclean spirits in the graveyard … He drove the evil spirits out of him, into the pigs?"

"The pigs drowned themselves," Johnny frowned seriously, "then the people from the town… they asked Jesus to go away… why weren't they happy, Mum. Jesus made the man better…"

"Because…when people don't understand something it makes them frightened. And I guess the pigs were someone's livelyhood." She could feel the topic she was trying for slipping away out of her grasp. Usually these veers into left field were something that she loved about her son, but not tonight.

"Unclean spirits are also called demons." She pushed forward relentlessly, while inside she cringed. "Now most of the time people do bad stuff and it's just them, being mean or selfish or bad... but sometimes, an unclean spirit… a demon can go into someone and make them do bad things…"

Her son took in the information solemnly.

"Unclean spirits or demons are afraid of Jesus, of God, because he's stronger... so... when they hear ' _Christo'_ which is Jesus title in the old language, they sort of shudder in fear and reveal themselves. Their eyes change and go ALL red or ALL black…If they hear the word _Christo_. Do you understand?"

Johnny bit his lip and frowned at his mother. "You always say that word, _Christo,_ when you see Prinipal Grant."

Despite herself, Michele smiled. "Yes, I do… but her eyes never change, do they? … So, we know she's _not_ possessed by an unclean spirit… she's just... not a very nice person."

"She pretends to be nice, but she isn't. She lies." The boy stated implacably, and Michele was surprised that her son was more balked by his Principal's sophism than over all the talk of demons and unclean spirits. He simply accepted it.

"But she doesn't have a demon in her." She continued, "now I know you're a good boy and you would never talk to or go anywhere with a stranger.  
But from now on, if someone _you do know_ asks you to go somewhere with them… I need you to say "Will ' _Christo'_ Christopher come to?" It will seem like a normal question but it's a test, okay.  
If the person's eyes change when you say _Christo_ , I need you to run away, get away from them and then draw a very special picture on the ground and stand in it. I'll teach you to draw in a second. The picture is called a devil's trap. Demons won't want to come get you if you stand inside the picture, because if they go onto it they'll get stuck like glue in it and get trapped."

Her son actually smiled at the thought, and Michele didn't know if she was horrified or relieved by his easy acceptance of what she was teaching him.

"I'm also going to teach you some special words in Latin, something called an exorcism, you need to _say it all and say it right_! We are going to practice it every day from now on, because it can send a demon away, back to Hell, like Jesus did in the bible. But," she gave him her best Mum glare, "I only want you to try using an exorcism if you have no other choice and can't run away, okay?"

Johnny nodded.

Fumbling with her necklace, she undid the clasp and slid off the small charm Dean had sent her.

"Come here." She requested, shifting closer. She undid the clasp on the matching silver chain Johnny wore and slid the charm onto the chain next to the cross he'd asked for for his 7th Birthday, then refastened it.

The boy held the charm in a cupped palm and examining it closely. "This is one of the pictures you draw on the tags of all our clothes." He noted fingering the charm.

That surprised her, he'd noticed the protective sigils she'd begun drawing on the tags of all her families clothing months ago. No one else appeared to have.

"It's to protect you. Because I love you." She told him simply, then picked up two pencils and a pad of paper off her son's desk.

"Now... to draw a devil's trap, the first thing you need to draw is a circle, like this… then you draw a star inside with all five points touching the circle...

You try it ...

Yes, good!

Now's the hard bit…

The first symbol goes in the bottom outside the star and looks a bit like a P with some flicky bits, … like so…"

…ooOoo…

 **Authors Note: I realised something during the last few weeks. I owe John Winchester a little bit of an apology.**

 **Upon careful consideration it turns out that trying to work out how to protect a child from demons and stay in one place, to let them go off to school and live a normal life, is damn near impossible.**

 **In retrospect, living off the grid and moving so often was probably the best form of protection John could give Sam. Especially since he didn't know what a demon trap was.**

 **That said I** _ **still**_ **think he was a stupid, secretive, selfish, neglectful sonofabitch and both of his sons deserved better.**


	90. Chapter 90: Staying Safe From Demons

**Chapter 90: Staying safe from Demons**

 **Chapter 90**

The after-story session had progressed surprisingly well, Johnny got the exorcism quickly and while he'd always struggled with handwriting, he could now draw a devil's trap accurately; she'd broken it down into 7 easy to follow steps, like the autism specialists suggested for new skills. Realising she'd utilised approved ASD teaching techniques led to a moment of hysterical, unhinged humour, as she imagined writing up a learning story titled "Staying safe from Demons," sharing it at the 'Parents of spectrum kids' coffee group.

Her life was the bastard child of a cheesy sitcom and a B grade horror movie.

It wasn't enough… nothing would ever be enough… and the chances were, if Johnny did see a demon's eyes change he'd just panic.

Fight, flight or freeze, it was pretty much a roll of the dice with Johnny, if he was thrust into a situation that scared him (like, a nice old lady in the lift at the mall telling him she liked his T-shirt. Or a kapa haka performance at school.) The impossibility of preparing a child, like him, to face Demons… Well it made it hard to sleep.  
Eventually, long after Phil had fallen asleep she got up and tried to work out what else she could do.

…..

Michele yawned, rubbed her tired eyes and studied her handiwork critically. She'd done what she could. Every windowsill and exterior doorway in the house now had a strip of double sided tape coated with consecrated salt across it. (If asked, she planned to tell any of her family that noticed, that the salt strips were to repel ants.) The doormat had a devil's trap painted underneath it, in paint of exactly the same colour as the underside of the mat. She'd borrowed Johnny's invisible ink spy pen, drawn sigils that could only be seen under UV light on the walls and devil's traps on the floor … practically everywhere.

Logically her home should now be a demon proof fortress and in the morning none of her family should be any the wiser.

Of course, it was the _should_ that had her worried.

Had the wikiHow page on consecrating salt and making holy water been correct?  
Would consecration even work for someone infected with demon blood?  
How did salt lines work? The only salt she had was iodised table salt, was that okay?  
Had putting the salt on double sided tape made it ineffective in some way? (It was the only thing she could think of to counteract owning a cat, to make sure the lines wouldn't get broken.)  
Did drawing sigils in invisible ink even work? Or did you need to be able to see them?  
Did drawing sigils on the tags of her family's clothes with a laundry marker provide protection? Or did the sigils need to go on a metal charm or be tattooed into skin?

A million questions she wished she'd thought to ask Sam or Dean.

Or, if she had thought, she hadn't, because Sam didn't like her asking, he thought ignorance kept her safe… much like his father John before him.

All the protections she'd placed on her house came down to that early file of protection sigils Dean had sent her, what she'd learnt from Carver Edlund's books, and the Supernatural wiki website Kat had pointed her to.

There was one other resource she had … People, all her fic-friends, Peaches, Kat, Cougar, Nic, Barb, Jen, Alex... and the people in the Supernatural Research and Discussion forum Cougar had talked her into joining.  
Sam and Dean's knowledge might be out of reach, but the Supernatural books had a very passionate group of readers that could act as a knowledge bank on all things Supernatural. Her fic gave her the perfect cover, and the Supernatural fandom was always eager to discuss the smallest things.

It took a bit of working out how to phrase her questions, but finally she cast her bread upon the waters. Sent a handful of messages out and posted a discussion topic into the group page.

…oooOooo…

Michele takes a deep breath of autumn crisp air and tries to push down her fears for Johnny at school.

She's done everything she can: filled the hem of Johnny's t-shirt with salt, surrounding him in a ring of salt like Morgan had suggested. Drawn a UV ink devils trap in the classroom doorway, felt more reassured about that, because Bobby had done it once and it had worked according to Dawn and Gayle … she'd even drawn an anti-posession sigil onto him with a sharpie which was Dawn's rough and dirty version of Cougar's more elegant idea of henna tattooing him, and then she'd concecrated him too, which Johnny had found hilarious and was a really long shot. Johnny has a small water pistol of holy water and a bag of consecrated salt in his pocket.  
He'll be fine, she has to stop worrying, Crowley is a demon but he's a smart demon. He knows what he's doing, threatening Johnny will keep her compliant. Hurting him though... Michele wonders exactly what she'd do if that happened...

Anything, Everything.

Taking another breath, she watches her youngest son's pure joy as he runs across the dew wet grass ahead of her.  
It has been too long, and she feels guilty over that, but the ducks remember Chris and what he always brings. They launch themselves across the pond and crowd around Chris' favourite bench, quacking eager greetings. Wingdeigo, Bossy, Patchy, Limpy, the four white ducks and old Huffa duck; the regulars are all here, interspersed in the sea of interchangeable mallards. Chris wades into the hoard fearlessly, a scene somehow reminiscent of Daenerys Stormborn wading into the sea of freed slaves as they cry out "Mhysa."

The scene clutches at her heart.

' _Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'_

Michele seats herself beside her son on the bench facing the pond and stares out at the play of sunlight over the water, pushes everything away and grounds herself in the now. Being truly present in the moment with her son, giving him a childhood memory, of a mother who loves him, some uncomplicated happiness, he deserves that. Opening the bread bag, she begins to rip a slice into smaller pieces, so he can feed the hungry.

….

Crowley sauntered up to the bench and took a seat next to the mother and son.

Michele glanced up and recognised the black suit with a plummeting dread; tightening her arm around the toddler she draws him tightly to her side and resolutely continues to rip the stale bread into small pieces and hand them over to her two-year-old.

"Well isn't this rural." The demon observes fastidiously, looking down at the mud and what was probably duck poo on his expensive shoes.

"I haven't told Sam or Dean anything. Haven't even spoken to them…I sent you a copy of all the chapters I've finished writing _ **… What more do you want?"**_

"Those chapters." The demon smirks "... very interesting reading Poppet. You _did_ say you'd like feedback."

Angrily she tosses half a slice of bread into the mob of ducks.

"Not from you, "she hisses, side eyeing him and shoves her hand into her left pocket, fills her fist with the Goofer dust that she'd bought online, after Gayle, from the Supernatural group suggested that it should act like consecrated salt on steroids against anything demonic.  
"Not from the _demon_ that's blackmailing me and threatening to hand my oldest son over to a pedophile!" She jerks her hand out of her pocket and tosses the powder at the demon, expecting something explosive to happen. Crowley grabs her wrist, vice tight and unbreakable before she can snatch up Chris and make a run for it, other than that he doesn't react.

Finally the demon gave her a puzzled look, dropped her wrist and brushed at his coat, sniffed at the residue on his fingers.

"Hmm?" The demon inquired mildly, "black pepper? You _do_ realise you used the wrong condiment, Darling."

"No, no, no, no… it's Goofer dust. It's supposed to be like consecrated salt on steroids against anything d-demonic." Her voice shook as she rubbed her wrist.

"No, I assure you it's black pepper. Besides I'm not a Hell Hound, Love. Where did you get this 'Goofer dust?'"

"I … uh… bought it on line…?"

The demon chuckled. "Of course, you did!

You got had, Pet. First rule of hoodoo: Don't buy supplies on line." Crowley advised smugly.  
"Back to the conversation at hand… Granted, yes, I _will_ hand your pride and joy over to a kiddie fiddler, but _only_ if you tattle.

The Winchester's both have anger issues." Crowley informed her patiently, his English accented voice sounding unfairly kind and reasonable. "You're Moose's favourite toy, he's a jealous individual. I seriously advise you to find someone else to have a cyber affair with.  
Sam… he has issues. Look how he got, when Dean and I explored our relationship a few years back."

"I'm not having a cyber affair! Sam's _just_ a friend… and Dean was a demon! That wasn't a relationship."

"Believe what ever you tell yourself, Pet. Just help me find Lucifer's spawn."

"I haven't seen Castiel or Kelly, not since Cas knocked out Sam and Dean and left them lying unconscious in the dirt. I'm not a dowsing rod. I couldn't find or help that blonde man you've got chained in your evil lair! I couldn't find or help Kelly when Dagon had her. Don't you think I wanted to?"

The demon favoured her with an almost pitying smile. "The blonde man's meat suit _was_ dead before it became my guest, if that makes you feel better? And I assure you, if Samantha Winchester knew what I have chained in my basement, he'd be begging me to bury it in the deepest darkest cage in Hell."

She turns, opens her mouth to ask what… sees Chris lean too far forward from the corner of her eye, turns to react.  
He would've fallen, before she could grab him, but Crowley flicked a hand and righted the child.

The demon made a disdainful sound. "The child really is a klutz, no wonder he's not your favourite."

"It's not really like that," she answers softly, wishing he wouldn't say things like that in front of Chris, he's slow with some things, but he understands what you say. "Chris and the girls it's not that I love them less, It's just… I was always the whole universe to Johnny, he never… really saw anyone else, even though they were there. When you're someone's whole universe like that, you can't help returning that dedication." She swallows painfully, "of course it's just weakness to you, so, you're exploiting it."

"Of course," the man in black acquiesced with a smug smile, then waved a hand at the ducks.  
"The winged vermin are waiting." He prompts.

Michele frowns, without anything else she can do, she returns to tearing up bread for her son, pulls out a few extra slices and hands them across to the demon; as if he is a normal stranger sharing their bench, and this is a normal day.

For a few beats Crowley held the bread limply in his hands, then began tearing and tossing it out to the ducks.

They continue like that for a long time, Michele handing Crowley more bread when his hands empty. Crowley even sounds like he's enjoying himself. An almost amicable feeling of companionship settles between them, until finally the bread bag is empty. The ducks wander off and they descend into silence looking out at the pond. The whole time Michele's mind has been churning, going over everything she knows about the demon.

"Crowley? Why are you still here?" She asks finally in a small voice. "Why did you stop Chris falling off the bench just now?"

"You'd rather he fell on his face?"

"No… but I'm his mother, I care about him, I don't like seeing him hurt."

"Children scream bloody murder when they hurt themselves, it ruins the ambience."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why does a child crying ruin the ambience? Why did you just let it go, when I tried to attack you? Why did Gavin say you're a better person now, than when you were alive? Why have you saved Castiel so many times? Why have you never taken the opportunity to kill the Winchesters?"

"You're one daft bird you know that?" Crowley mutters dusting off his hands. "Gavin was a moron! Feathers, Dumb and Dumber are all useful, on occasion."

"A _villain_ is a _victim_ whose story hasn't been told, I read that, this week."

The demon snorted. "You're naïve sweetums. Everyone is a victim at some point."

"Yes, and we're all villains … ALL have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, says so in the bible."

"Save the sermons for someone you can help, I'm a demon Love, beyond redemption."

"Are you? I guess you'd know…  
I just can't help wondering… when and how does someone become incapable of love or repentance, and are you really, Crowley? Have you ever wondered how Dean Winchester of all people got stuck with the title of Righteous Man…? I love him, but … he's not exactly a saint, is he? A bit like Abraham in my books. Abraham believed God and it was credited to him as Righteousness.

Someone once described redemption to me like God handing us a blank check, it was created by Jesus Christ's…" The demon's eyes flicked red. "-Uh sorry! - His death on the cross. The account the blank check draws on has unlimited funds, because well, He was God … everything belongs to Him. So, no matter what we've done, it can _potentially_ pay our debts.  
We get to choose, we can either say 'stuff that' and toss the check away or use it to pay what we owe. But to get our debt paid we have to acknowledge we are in debt, that we can't pay it by ourselves and accept the _gift_ of payment on our behalf, write 'for the payment of the debts incurred by, Michele Cherie Chadwick' or … Crowley Fergus Roderick MacLeod… on that check … use the potential of the payment available..." Michele stumbled to a stop awkwardly, suddenly realising that Crowley was staring at her incredulously.

"Are you really, trying to save my soul? Are you a fucking moron?" The monarch scoffed, voice dripping with scorn. "You, you're not exactly an advertisement for survival of the fittest, are you."

Michele could feel herself blushing.  
For a second, she'd forgotten… gotten caught up in trying to explain salvation… to a demon of all people.

Not exactly a wise move.

Crowley sat studying her, frowning like she was a new kind of bug. He didn't seem mad exactly, just impatiently irritated, it was the sort of response most people had to 'God talk.'

"… it's just …when Sam tried to cure you during the trials…" Crowley shifted beside her and looked away, "…you asked him, how, you were supposed to even begin to look for forgiveness. It's years too late, I know... but, I just wanted to tell you, forgiveness isn't earned, it's given, all you have to do is ask God for it, and really mean it."

…

Crowley King of Hell shifted away from the woman on the park bench slightly.  
She's just so … ertch! He suppresses a shudder of distaste.  
He misses the other prophet, that kid Kevin Tran. At least he never tried to _preach_. Crowley has met God, HE wasn't exactly awe inspiring, in person… turned out HE was pretending to be another Prophet, that Hack writer Chuck Shurley, wrote those God awful supernatural books.

Kevin didn't think or talk about God, definitely didn't think demons wanted to be _good_ … somewhere deep down. But of course, _he_ gets cursed with Sam Winchester's pet Zanna.

"You're consistent, I'll give you that, Love. All heart and no brain." He informs her, allowing his contempt for her saccharine world view to colour his voice. "You have these cuddly notions about that Nephilim. Think you taught it to _love_ , _as if that's possible_ …it's father is The Father of Lies, the most evil manipulative bastard in all creation… but you won't entertain the possibility that junior is playing you."

By his side the woman shudders and he thinks she's going to argue with him, again. Until she makes a pained sound and her head jerks back sharply, as if she's been hit with a jolt of electricity.

Her eyes flood with gold light and her body slumps. He catches her reflexedly, stares down at her pale face as blood creeps from her nose and the corners of her glowing eyes.  
The sight sends an unexplainable shudder through him, makes him want to shove her lax body off his lap and flee.

"Momma owwie?" The tyke pipes up from his left, half crawling onto his mother to reach out a chubby hand and grab onto his coat sleeve, it's bottom lip is beginning to quiver, with the other hand the child tugs ineffectually at his mother's hair.

He looks at it, pats its hand awkwardly.  
"Your Momma's busy right now Moppet. But she'll be right back.  
Then, she'll tell us a story."


	91. Chapter 91: One-Up-Man-Ship

Chapter 91: One-Up-man-ship 

**Chapter 91**

Crowley took his eyes off the child, looked down at the woman's face contemplatively. Such a little thing, really; though she wasn't much shorter than his mother she didn't have the same physical presence.

The demon trailed an experimental thumb over the woman's blood drenched lips and smiled smugly to himself, imagining the look Sam Winchester would give him, if he could just see the liberties he was taking, with his bird.

Tilting her head up with one hand, he cupped his other under her chin, to catch the vermillion flow in the palm of his hand and stop it soiling his suit…

It was… so warm… so red.

The King of Hell swallowed, suddenly half mesmerised by the sight of that red, live blood pooling on and smeared across the meat he inhabited.

Addiction to blood, one thing he and Moose'd had in common; not that high and mighty Sam Winchester had wasted any sympathy or fellow feeling over it, even when he was strung out detoxing. He got nothing but withering contempt from long and tall, even though the invasive bastard was the one that sunk that red dragon's fang into him, shot him up again and again, until he was well and truly hooked. Then, just left him hanging.

Dean'd called her Sam's cousin by demon blood, Winchesters liked to claim their victims as Family, before they used them up and destroyed them. Couldn't claim her as a sister of course, not with Moose wanting to bang her, or Dean's little phone sex debarkal. Crowley chuckled at the thought of Jolly Green's face if he found out what big brother had tried on with the object of his affections, oh to be a fly on the wall if Moose found out about that! What exactly did Moose find so fascinating, had he sensed the things in her blood? Blood calling to blood?

What would it be like to spike a syringe of _this_ blood into his vein? Would it feel like Sam's had? … Better?

Crowley lifted the blood cupped in his hand, admired it.

Her blood was just... _so red._

No wonder Moose couldn't take his eyes off it on the screen, no wonder he dreamed of her giving it up to him.

It was partially the thought of one upping Sam Winchester that made the demon raise his bloody hand to his mouth.

Salt and iron, a sting that was somehow both fire and ice in his mouth as he swallowed it down.

He licked his bloody palm clean. Took a breath and let his head rock back from the influx of _feeling_ that curled through his senses. He'd forgotten _how good_ it felt, how much more _present_ he felt, the colours sparked brighter, sun felt warmer, caressing over his skin.

It wasn't the same as shooting up, but the glow was still there; followed by the same panicked feeling, realisation that he'd lost control, again.

It was nothing, less than nothing… It barely counted as a slip, he assured himself, gazing down again into her face. Avoided focusing on the burning gold flooding her eyes, behind the tinted lenses of her skewed glasses, the sight of which stirred dread in his guts, like warnings of a bad trip.

Her skin was sickly pale, beneath the blood, her lips tinged blue; she wasn't breathing he realised belatedly.

It had been a long while since he'd bothered to consider such things. The functions of life. Demons and damned souls didn't need beating hearts, pumping blood or the pedestrian in and out motions of breathing. Still, there should be no need to intervene. By all accounts she'd start breathing on her own again shortly.

….

As she comes back to herself Michele feels a moment of terrified disorientation, she's half lying in someone's lap, held there by strong hands. Blinking her eyes clear she looks up at the face staring down it her.

Crowley! She struggles to sit up, get off his lap, but the demon keeps her pinned where she is, removes her glasses and pulls out a handcerchief, proceeds to wipe her face fastidiously clean, like she's a messy child.

Finally, he re-seats her glasses on her face.

"There, all clean." He announces with a sardonic smile that brings a disconcerting look of warmth to his eyes, he stuffs the handkerchief in his coat pocket and lets his power drop away.

Michele lurches back, away from the demon on the bench, heart hammering, over the proprietal way he'd manhandled her. Pretty much instantly regrets the motion as she wraps her arms round Chris protectively, sucking ragged breaths of pain with her skin crawling.

"Why…" she chokes out, waving a hand between them, trying to convey her question without the assault of words. Her head is still reverberating with the vision, the fear of another mind, and her own. Closes her eyes against the sunlight and the post vision migraine, she clears her throat and spits blood into the grass.

Crowley just looks at her impassively.

"Momma 'ory?" Chris asks from her arms as he tugs on a handful of her hair making her wince.

"Story?" She echos completely lost.

"Moppet and I are waiting with bated breath for the story of your travels, Sweet." Crowley gruffed, Michele stared at him with resentful eyes for a while. "Come now Sweetness don't play hard to get, I don't like recalcitrant little girls."

Her resistance is always low after a vision. She doesn't want Crowley to start throwing his weight around, he may look civilised, but he's not, he cut off Kevin's finger, killed other proto prophets, he could hurt Chris, and she can't risk that. Besides, the latest vision was pretty much nothing, useless and obscure; it might help Crowley understand why stalking and intimidating her is a waste of his time.

She sighs heavily.

"It was night, but there must have been a full moon because it was still bright enough to see. I … -whoever's eyes I was seeing through- was running through forest… scared, trying to outrun something. Kept thinking I'd been stupid, never checked the car..." She rubbed at her aching temples. "The whole vision was weird, cinamatic, kind of disconnected… but I can't quite put my finger on why… There was something about it, wrong… missing…? I don't know…

It wasn't Castiel or Kelly before you ask. Who ever it was had a gun, but it wasn't Sam or Dean, either, I know what their thoughts taste like… and the car the person was thinking about … it _felt_ red not black, who ever they were, they thought about the car as... a thing… not..."

"Not something that brings new meaning to the term autoerotica? I'm curious Pet, do Winchesters taste like cut price alcoholism and ingratitude to you too? Or something more pent up?"

Michele just stared at the demon, too wrung out to think of an appropriate response.

"That's it? The moon was high, I saw someone running through the woods with a gun?!" He mimicked mockingly, "did you even see what was chasing this individual?"

"No," she admitted sullenly.

"Well you are useless, aren't you?!"

"Yes… post-it glue. I keep telling you..."

"'ory, 'ory, 'ory…" Chris choses that moment to pipe up again.

Michele sighs and closes her eyes, Chris doesn't understand, and if he doesn't get what he's been promised soon, he'll start crying. She isn't sure she can cope with a screaming two-year old _and_ a volitile demon right now.

She dredges one of Chris's current favourite Lynley Dodd stories, 'Scarface Claw,' out of her aching, abused brain. Begins reciting it by rote.

" _Who is the roughest and toughest of cats? The boldest, the bravest, the fiercest of cats?"_

She chants the words softy, repetition has them falling easily from her lips.

" _Wicked of eye and fiendish of paw is mighty, magnificent, SCARFACE CLAW._

 _Scaredy cats tremble and people all shout, whenever this tomcat is out and about._

 _No matter what happens, whoever might call, there's NOTHING that frightens him, nothing at all."_

 _Is he frightened of thunderstorms?_

 _Certainly not…."_

On the other end of the bench Crowley harrumphs mockingly but stays quiet throughout the rest of the story recital.  
Scarface confronted many feline fears, with great a pomp, right up until the last line of the story.

"That last line doesn't make sense." Crowley groused.

"It's a kid's book Crowley." She responded feeling defensive. "The illustrations have Scarface confronting himself in a mirror. He scares himself and runs away. Hence the only thing that scares him, _is him._ Chris loves it."

She looked up to see if Crowley understood, but the demon has vanished.

…oooOooo…

Dean pushed up off the impala, walked towards his brother as he came back out of the motel office carrying the key he'd got from the manager, fake FBI credentials and that Samuel Winchester brand of authority and empathy that Dean has never been quite able to muster.

When they'd walked in to the motel office the dude behind the desk had just looked at them and given Dean _that look_ , the one some guys got; it said, "doesn't matter what you want, I'm gonna do my level best to screw you round, because I just don't like you." He was more hinderance than help in those cases. He'd glanced at Sam silently, raised one eyebrow a notch and received a minute nod in return, yup Sam'd caught it too; So, he'd faked taking a phone call, and turned on his heel, leaving Sam to it.

Sam didn't smile as he walked back towards him, just held up the key to Mom's Motel unit. Dean found himself missing the absent toothy smile; wished Sam would make a scathing comment along the lines of how he fully understood how Dean could piss some people off just by existing.  
But he didn't say a word, Sam'd been morose since Rockriver, since Max and Alicia – or telling Mitch… or Cas ditching them for his new baby god.

The elder Winchester scuffed the heel of his work boot through the lot's gravel.

Yeah, he guessed there were a million reasons for Sam not to smile. They really needed a win, not whatever problem Mom had dug up, then gone non-comuniacado over.

Sam tossed him the key, he caught it easily as they walked toward Mom's unit.

"Sam, you hear from Mitch lately?"

Sam's lips drew down "No Dean, we've been sorta busy… w-with the Banes and now Mom… beside I sorta think she needs time to process."

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. "Yeah maybe…" he cleared his throat. "Yeah, but … don'tcha think talkin' with someone who knows what it's like would help her, I mean you sorta…"

Sam cleared his throat, pinched at the bridge of his nose and ran a harassed hand through his hair. "You want me to tell her this is all okay?! She doesn't want lies Dean … So, what am I supposed to tell her? If she wants to talk, she'll reach out …. in the meantime, we need to find Cas and Kelly, figure out what's going on with Mom. Okay?"

Dean sighed, unlocked the door and pulled the "no service" request off the doorknob. Pushed the door open and flicked on the lights.

"Mom?" He called looking around the very green motel unit, noted the dishevelled bed and tossed the 'no service' request onto the nearby table cluttered with old take out containers and an empty wine bottle (apparently Mom wasn't much of a neat freak.) "Mom?"

He checked the room, and the bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain; noted the floor of the shower was bone dry, hadn't been used in days.

"Well, looks like she hasn't been here for a while." He shared his findings with Sam.

"Yeah." Sam agreed "All her stuff is gone. Did she say she was moving on or –"

"No, I told you what she said. She said, Dean, call me. We have a problem. And then that was it. She didn't sound happy."

"Okay, well, when she's not here, she's been bunking with the Brits. So maybe – "

"Well, dude, I've called Mick, like, six times. He's been radio silent since they sent him to London."

Sam gave him a look.

Ketch… crap he really didn't wanna go there... But pulled out is phone and swiped through his contacts found Ketch's number.

The phone rang.

"Yes?" Ketches voice always set his teeth on edge.

"Ketch, calling to see if my Mom's with you."

"Who is this?" The pompous ass enquired in his usual tea and crumpets tone of voice.

"It's Dean." He snapped, like the douch's iPhone didn't have caller id, seriously.

"I know a number of Dean's, could you be more specific." Ketch continued stringing out the conversation, playing his little game.

"Winchester."

"Dean Winchester, ahhh and why are you calling _me_ , Dean? Mary has a number of phones."

"Because I'd like to speak to her, that's why."

"I am not your mother's keeper, Dean. I have to ask however, are you always this terse when calling your mother?"

"No, I'm not being terse. Look, if you haven't seen her, do you know where she is?"

"I really couldn't say. I do think it would behove you to use more manners when speaking on the phone, Dean. No matter the situation, manners bring out the best in people, don't you think? Curtness on the other hand..."

"No, I'm not being curt either. Look, I don't have time for Manners 101 from you, okay? If she's with you, I wanna know about it..."

"I haven't seen Mary since last Wednesday, Dean. Shall I tell her you called, when I see her next.

...I do think that if your Mother is avoiding your calls, it might do to examine your contribution to that situation, instead of lashing out at others. Now if that is all you required, I am a tad busy. Goodbye Dean."

The tea swilling sonofabitch was getting on his last nerve

"Fine" he bit out and hung up.

"Such a dick."

"And?" Sam asked

"He says he hasn't seen Mom in over a week."

"But Mom called two days ago, said she was working a case with him."

Dean nodded and rolled his neck, looked at his brother helplessly. "Which means he's lying."

"But why would he –"Sam began, but his phone began ringing and cut him off.  
He grunted, pulled it out and looked at the caller id.

"Jody." He informed

"Jody, hey."

"No… what?" Sam closed his eyes and winced at whatever Jody said, curled in on himself slightly.

"No. Uh, No, we hadn't heard."

Dean's guts twisted, from the look on Sam's face, it was bad news

"Mom?" He asked anxiously.

Sam shook his head. Had something bad turned up on Cas and Kelly?

"Um, when? What the hell happened?"

He wished Sam would tell him what Jody had to say or put it on speaker phone.

"Oh, no... No, I-I, Yeah, thanks for letting me know. Bye."

Sam hung up the phone.

"Who?"

"Eileen." Sam looked away, lips drawn thin, eyes like wounds.

Dean closed his eyes, it was a kick in the guts, worse because Mitch had painted the chance of a life for Sam and Eileen in his head, he realises now he'd bought in to that possibility. That and there's Claire to think about too.

"How?" He prompted finally.

"She was, uh, mauled by a wild animal in a wooded area that doesn't have animals that do that, in South Carolina."

"But, I thought she was in Ireland."

Sam shrugged helplessly and turned his back, dragged a hand down his face to obliterate tears.

'Winchester men don't cry, Sammy man up,' a memory of John Winchester barks in the back of Dean's head. Dean shakes the memory away in denial.

Winchester men cry plenty.

"Sam…" He began.

"Dean" his little brother turned back to him eyes shiny and hooded, face pale. "That's the second Hunter death we've heard about in two weeks."

"I know. But two doesn't mean a pattern." He argued.

"Three would."

"Meaning?"

"Mom's a Hunter, and no one knows where she is."


	92. Chapter 92: Judas

Chapter 92: Judas

 **Chapter 92**

Rain, rain and more rain, today there'd be no visits to the park. Today, Summer was a memory and Autumn had bowed out to Winter.

On days like this Mothers were thankful for Minecraft and Paw patrol. Michele sipped her coffee and frowned at the email notifications from her latest chapter.

She hated the damn chapter, hadn't even edited it, grammar and spelling be damned; Crowley's scathing opinion of her, being pushed around, his threats against her son, none of those things were what she wanted to dwell on.

But for all that, there was a certain solicace that people had read it, that someone else knew, even if they thought it was fiction.

The few reviews she'd received were from her regulars, all but one. Which was from a guest reviewer, and a little weird.

 _Guest:. I love the symbology of a bloody kiss. It brings to mind Judas or Sleeping beauty's prince. Betrayal or redemption from a curse._

The comment about a bloody kiss was so … random.

Of course, you got random reviews from time to time, people tried to be humorous … or deep, or tried to prod the story along a track they felt enthusiastic about…

Some were just just weird, random attention seeking statements. Like the one Peaches got the other day, announcing 'I am the vampire queen, I built my castle on a mountain of bones.' That review had a grand sum of nothing to do with Peaches fic.

This review did seem to relate to her fic at least. Blood… there was just… always so much blood …

A bloody kiss… was the reviewer trying to imply she should have drunk the demon blood, or that eventually she would make a deal with Crowley to save Johnny? That she needed to wake up? Was the reviewer referring to how she'd stupidly said she could kiss Sam all those weeks ago, after he'd posted her chapter for her when she was stranded with her in-laws? … Did they mean she was, or would betray Sam?

Michele gnawed her lower lip and let the hand she cradled her phone in fall to her lap…Maybe she _was_ betraying him, she hadn't called or emailed the Winchesters about the vision she'd had at the park, with Crowley.

She'd told herself it was because the vision hadn't had anything useful in it, that the Winchesters wouldn't be any happier with it than Crowley had been. But the truth was, she was afraid, afraid that she'd break, tell them about Crowley's visits …. That, then Crowley would do as he threatened. And Johnny would pay for her weakness.

As if thinking of the demon summoned him, a vision slammed into her skull.

…..

Crowley smiled at the British Elder of letters, Gillian Hess. Illegitimate great granddaughter of Rudulf Hess, one-time Deputy to the Führer and ratifier of the Nuremberg Laws, of 1935; the laws that stripped German Jews of all their rights in the lead-up to the Holocaust.

Like her ancestor, this Hess was a clever and ruthless politician. She'd risen through the ranks of the British men of letters and became both an Elder, in the predominantly male Men of Letters organisation, and headmistress of Kendrick's academy.

Her prim appearance was delightfully deceiving. She was, Crowley knew, a woman not to be underestimated. She had trained and mentored some of the most unmerciful assassins alive, ones that hunted both man and monster. Since their first meeting, Crowley had found her to be an endlessly fascinating and interesting woman. One whose ruthlessness he'd learnt never to underestimate.

Michele absorbed the King of Hell's knowledge, comforted for the first time, that Crowley thought so little of _her_.

She recognised the tastefully dressed woman, as Mick Davies' Doctor Hess, the deity like figure that had overshadowed the mans childhood with equal parts awe and dread.

"Obviously, your organization is looking to put down roots." The King of Hell suggested lightly to his companion, "I just want to make doubly sure that you and I have the same arrangement in the States that we do in the U.K."

Michele experienced a flare of vindictive justification upon hearing those words. The British Men of Letters _were_ dirty, she'd just known it! This woman was a member of the organisation's leadership, why else did they have some kind of arrangement with a demon.

Then of course, her better angels piped up, reminded her Sam and Dean also worked with Crowley… And, that she may want to deny it, but she did now, too.  
She'd be a hypocrite to say things were ever simple or clear cut… Maybe Crowley had something over Hess.

' _Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty. What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms ... or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human…'_ They wereGeorge R.R Martin's words, not hers, but true for all that.  
When you point the finger, remember there are three pointing back at you. _  
_  
Gillian Hess smiled back at Crowley, her eyes flat and humourless, "I don't see why not. No point being at war. Both sides lose." She agreed primly. "If, your demons limit their involvement to humans idiotic enough to sell their souls."

"Done." Crowley agreed easily.

"And share information? As needed?" Hess stipulated.

Crowley lifted his eyebrows, "I assume finding that infernal nephilim is a top priority?"

Finding 'this child' really did seem to be Crowley's overwhelming concern.

"Since it could kill you, me, and the entire universe… probably." Hess agreed, sounding bored.

"I am a team player. My demons are scouring the country as I speak." Crowley volenteered.

"Did you notice my sigh of relief? Oh, right. There wasn't one." The woman answered scornfully brushing off Crowley's attempt to align priorities.

Despite herself Michele felt her hackles rise again. For all her words about the threat that might destroy the universe, Hess seemed to barely care.

Michele couldn't agree with Crowley, his fears about Kelly's child and his methods were _wrong_! She didn't want to be party to helping him find or kill 'this child'.. But she couldn't deny that Crowley was following his convictions.

The British Men of Letters on the other hand, had knowledge, money and resources far beyond anything Sam and Dean had, claimed to be noble … good... But consistently did nothing… about the Werewolf cure, the Appocalypse, Lucifer, Dick Roman… Amara.

All Michele's instincts continued to argue that the demon was the lesser of two evils in the room.

Hess looked like she was about to walk out, then turned back, eyed the demon coldly. "Crowley, one more thing…"

"What?"

"Your relationship with the Winchesters... It's a bit cozy for my taste. I hope you don't expect me to spare your friends."

Crowley narrowed his eyes and smiled as if he was amused.

"I don't have friends, I make deals with those I can use," he informed her, apparently unphased.

But Michele was surprised by the amount of contained, almost possessive, fury the demon hid.

Crowley was furious that Hess had the nerve to imagine she could tell _him_ what to do, but there was more to it than that… Crowley saw the Winchesters as _his, his_ to spare... (or slaughter, if he ever decided to.)

The King of Hell had shrugged off Michele's question in the park, might deny the Winchesters were his friends… but they were the closest thing he had. They'd been through too many fires together, knew each other's failings and wounds intimately. Crowley had come to rely that, on them... Deep down Crowley knew... he hated and embraced the knowledge in equal measure.

Meanwhile Hess had walked out, and Crowley stared after her, thinking maybe it was time the British bitch had a lesson, a permenant lesson, in humility. One whose punchline would end with Hess discovering, contry to code of the British Men of Letters, the ends _did not in fact_ justify the means. Upon death she'd discover that, just as many of her hypocritical predecessors had; she would of course transition quickly from tortured soul, to torturer, gain her black eyes and become what she'd once claimed to dispise. It was an evolution of sorts, one that tickled Crowley's sense of poetic irony.

….

Blood on her hands and face, Michele gazed out the rain streaked window, her head reeling. What did Hess mean about sparing the Winchesters? Were they in danger? From what she had felt from Crowley, surely he wouldn't allow her to harm them. Not unless there was something to be gained. Crowley was consistently one step ahead of everyone else. Was that why he'd used whatever Chirone wanted to sell, to gain information on the Men of Letters warding? So that he'd stay one step ahead of them…. Maybe.

Maybe, Michele thought. Maybe… the bible verse, that said all things worked together for good… might even apply to self-serving, manipulative demons, such as Crowley.

…oo0oo…

Sam stared down at Eileen's pale, battered, achingly _dead_ face and struggled to swallow down the guilt and regret that threatened to drown him.  
She was a Hunter, and this was where a Hunter's story usually ended, alone and unclaimed, in a morgue, body torn to shreads by something...

He couldn't help wondering though, how differently things would have turned out if he'd allowed that night, the one after Eileen had accidentally killed the man of Letters, to turn out the way she had wanted … the way part of _him_ had wanted …

She would have stayed, if he'd just … gone with the flow.  
Instead he'd chosen … what exactly? Not something he could have… Dean was right...

He'd hurt her, at the time he'd thought he was doing the right thing. Now, he wasn't so sure...

People who cared about him ended up dead, or broken...

He'd hurt Eileen when she was already hurting, and she'd fled to Ireland.  
Then, somehow, she ended up here, in South Carolina, on this morgue slab. Cold and lifeless, with her soft skin shredded and leaves tangled in her hair; hair that had once smelled like roses.

If he'd done things differently… or pushed Michele's idea of pairing her off with Claire harder… Done more… would she be alive right now?  
Michele and Dean, they'd tried, this was on him, he'd screwed it up, dropped the ball… This… Eileen's death was His fault.

Dean glanced up at him from reading the autopsy report, his green eyes lit with a halting concern, an echoing guilt and sadness.

Sam swallowed, "People who do what we do, you know there are gonna be deaths," shook his head helplessly, "but... this..." He swallowed again, lost for words.

Dean nodded minutely, "These wounds – I mean, we've only seen something this bad a few times."

"Hellhound?"

Dean shut the report. "Yeah… But it doesn't make any sense. Why would a – why would a demon sic a hellhound on her? Why did she leave Ireland?"

"I don't know, Dean."

Dean began pacing.

"All right, well, counting Eileen, that makes seven Hunters in three weeks."

Seven dead Hunters in the past three weeks... and Mom was still missing.

"Yeah, and those are the ones we know about."

"Seven monster-related deaths. I mean, what? Did all the things out there suddenly start working together?"

"Dean, monsters and demons don't team up!"

Especially after what Crowley had done to find purgatory …

"Seven Hunters are gone. We can't grab a signal from Mom's phone. Cas has Kelly Kline who knows where. Mick has slipped off the grid. Ketch is lying to us." Sam huffed a breath of frustration "I-I... I wanna punch something in the face."

"Good!" Dean advised, "Hold on to that, 'cause it looks like we got a hellhound to deal with. Which means…"

…oo0oo…

"Moose, to what do I owe the displeasure?" Crowley asked, answering the phone.

"Eileen Leahy, she was a Hunter, she's dead." Sam grated in his ear.

"And…?" The Monarch prompted, less than thrilled with the way the conversation was headed.

"A hellhound did it, Crowley. And no hunter would make a demon deal…"

Crowley raised an eyebrow, tempted to remind Sam that Mommy and Daddy had done just that, _Dean_ had done just that. That _he,_ high and mighty Sam Winchester had been willing to do just that, _multiple times_.  
Instead he let it slide.

"I'm telling you, I don't know anything about it. The name Eileen Leahy means nothing to me." He lied smoothly.

He did know the name, had read about Sam's aborted tryst with the woman, after Dagon sent team free will packing with their tails between their legs.  
And... the demon remembered belatedly, Mrs Preachy Prophet had mentioned in her story that said lady Hunter owned _a lipstick red Chevy_ … that answered the question of who had been scampering through the moonlit woods, gun in hand.

Well, well Samuel Winchester was still the world champion of lady killing by association. Apparently, the peen of death continued unabated. Crowley smirked to himself.

"Crowley, only a demon can control a hellhound, which means that one of your people was involved." Sam eraniously lectured, much to Crowley's continued amusement, Moose did such a wonderful nagging wife impersonation.

"If that were the case, I would know about it. There are no missing hellhounds." Crowley smiled to himself, well pleased by the truth of his statements.  
"I was cuddling with them just last night." Which was also true after a fashion, the hounds were the only minions of Hell that seemed to know how to do their jobs lately. The rest of them were useless imbeciles that set his teeth on edge.

"Right," Moose was unconvinced, "and you know nothing else of the other Hunters who are dying?"

"Not only don't I know, I don't care." He replied and hung up.

Crowley considered what he'd learnt thoughtfully, and let out a harassed breath, continued towards his goal with more urgency in his step.

The King of Hell swept into the room where he kept his favourite pet.

Chained, collared and manacled, yet annoyingly at ease.  
There he sat.  
Inside the blonde meatsuit that Sam Winchester's little pet had spent so much angst over.

"Never thought of you as a cuddler, Crowley. Tell me more." His chained pet jibbed, lifting his shoulders to mime mocking enthusiasm.

"More? I've been giving thought to your future. As my slave, you could be useful as a weapon, laying waste to my enemies, starting with a certain British bitch who's far too comfortable giving me ultimatums." The black clad King of Hell spat in irritation, thinking of Hess.

"Are you done?"

"No." Crowley forced an unconvincing smile onto his lips to cover his irritation. "If you do have any information as to the whereabouts of Kelly Kline, and the spawn …" The blonde man looked away from Crowley, seemed to look right at Michele, with a smile he raised an eyebrow slightly.

The vision jolted and flickered.

Crowley seemed to jump from one side of the room to the other, like surveillance footage that had a chunk cut out of it and re-spliced.

"Hmm…. Interesting." The blonde man appeared to be considering something. Then smiled mockingly.

"Pass!"

"Mm... Think about it." Crowley replied, tapped his wrist to indicate time passing "Tick-tock."

Then turned on his heel and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

As the door shut, a dark skinned man, ?or demon? was revelled, standing behind the door. The man, ?or demon? took a shaky breath of relief.

He'd obviously been hiding from Crowley.

The chained blonde stared straight at the other, tilted his head impatiently, "I need to get out of here" he announced "Now!"


	93. Chapter 93: Been a Crappy Week

Chapter 93: Been a crappy week

 **Chapter 93**

Dean took another swig of whisky directly from the bottle and looked across at the other bed in the room. Sam was wrapped in silence, doggedly making his way through his second plastic motel tumbler of the same. Sam has pulled the ubiquitous Gideon bible out of the bedside draw, it's lying slantwise on the bed; and occasionally Sam will run his fingers over the cover, like someone petting a dog, but he doesn't open it.

Dean isn't sure how Sam feels about Chuck these days, but doubts he's feeling particularly devout right now.

Nowadays, bibles make Dean think of Mitch, he wonders if it's the same for Sam, or if he's thinking of Pastor Jim Murphy and the funeral services they'd witnessed as kids, at Jim's church in Blue Earth, Minnesota. Those funerals and tonight's activities, they're a world apart. For all Dean knows, Sam could be thinking of Jessica's funeral. Times like these, what's happening inside Sam's big head is an impenetrable mystery.

Their investigation has been a bust.

Eileen hadn't checked into any of the motels in, Charleston, S.C or any of the surrounding towns.

There were no suspicious deaths, apart from Eileen's in the area and everything argues she was simply passing through, rather than working a case.

Crowley claimed to know nothing, and the crime scene was devoid of any physical evidence of a Hellhound, except the way Eileen's body had been torn up.

There'd been no sulphur, giantass clawed footprints or any of the usual signs of a Hellhound, demon or supernatural fugley. No ectoplasm, hex bags, EMF, weird symbols or calling cards.

Highway patrol had found Eileen's car, with the driver's door wide open, run off the road into a tree. Abandoned but still running. It was the reason they found her body so quickly.

Eileen's car was clean … almost too clean.

Definitely hadn't looked like the impala after Ramsey had gone to town on her.

Strangely there'd been no sign of her weapons or other Hunting gear. Like most Hunters worth their salt, her weapons compartment was protected, no demon could have looted it, and why would one?

Eileen could have stowed her gear elsewhere. But again, why?

There are so many loose ends and unanswered questions, more questions than answers, a grand sum of nothing. After two days of investigation.

Tonight, they'd given Eileen a Hunter's funeral.

Tomorrow they were leaving.

It felt so wrong, but Mom was still missing and there was nothing else they could do for Eileen.

Sam wasn't taking it well, sure, he could see the logic, hadn't argued. But he'd barely spoken since their discussion.

Dean glanced at Sam's laptop, lying open on the table next to the empty Chinese takeout cartons and beer bottles from dinner; a dinner that Sam had picked at overly-long then eventually handed off to his brother, half eaten.

He watches Sam's fingers curl round the bible again, watches his brother raise the tumbler to his mouth again, take another long gulp of whiskey. Sam closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the headboard, as if the whiskey hurts as it slides down his throat.

Dean wonders what happened with Sam and Eileen that night.

Sam's taking this one hard and yeah Sammy always _cares_ , but this time there's an edge to it.

He wonders _exactly_ how much Mitch said to Sam about Eileen.

Wonders if Mitch knows Eileen's dead.

Wishes she'd call.

Mitch would know what to say to Sam right now, she's good at the emotional shit he always fails miserably at.

Dean gets up off his bed, pulls up a chair and seats himself at the laptop.

Across the room Sam opens his eyes and blinks at him, groans and pouts.

"Dean, Dude! If you're gonna look at porn on _my_ laptop with me right here… I swear to God I'm gonna murder you, an' I'm not gonna wait til you're sleepin', seri'sly… " Sam bitches sloppily, alcohol apparent in his voice.

Dean ignores him, just clicks on the Skype app, logs in and stares at Mitch's id.  
She's on line… he could call, maybe he _should_ call.

He rubs the back of his neck and glances over at Sam again. He's subsided back against the headboard, eyes shut, his glass in his lax hand empty.

Sam would probably prefer he watched porn than called Mitch right now, and there's a small vicious part of him that wants to anyway, just to show Mitch that Sammy needs Hunter's helper too, sometimes, that everybody's favourite ain't always a saint.

Guiltily, Dean shoves the impulse away.  
Pushes back from the laptop, gets up, shoves his feet into shoes, grabs his gun, wallet, phone and keys.

Sam blinks at him blearily.

"D'n?"

"Goin' for a drive Sammy."

"Hol'up.. I'll come with…" Sam pushes himself up.

"You try gettin' off your ass, your gonna fall on your face, you're wasted Sam. Get some sleep."

"Hunters are dying D'n! R'ck McNeee…"

Yeah, the latest in the dead Hunter's club. A guy Donna worked with a couple of times, Mom may have mentioned him once too, his specialty was Vamps.

Rick McNee, weekend vampire Hunter.

He'd turned up dead in his own home with his throat slit. No guarantee Ricky boy's demise had anything to do with Eileen's death or Mom's on going silence, but Sam fears the worst. That's what Sam invariably does.

"Sam!" He warns, voice set low, a command to back off, he really didn't want to hear it. Sam flinches, then slumps in defeat.

It makes Dean feel bad, again, but he isn't going to back down. He just …. needs out of the room. "I just needta clear my head, okay?"

Sam shrugs, gives him a patented Sam Winchester scowl and waves a drunken hand. _'Go then, Dean. See if I care. You get killed… I'm gonna kill you again for being a stupid asshole, then I'm gonna say, I told you so.'_ One wave of the hand says it all.

…ooo0ooo…

"Hi, M. I'm super late to answer this... But Hmm, maybe by washing the child's clothes in holy water or introducing an object in the story that repeals demons.. otherwise there are too many ways for a demon to grab a child.

?"

Reading the message on her phone, Michele sighs and lets her head fall back against the headrest in the car.

It's been nearly a week, since she sent Cat the message she's replying to.

Her Slovenian friend is young, and the young, they have their own priorities. Michele tries not to feel anything negative about it. That's life.

"It's okay Cat, that ship has sailed." She types by way of reply.

It doesn't matter anymore, she's come to the conclusion that her best defence is to send Crowley her chapters and behave, hope that he gets bored of threatening her.

"Thought it might, you write fast.. how did you stop the demon?"

"I didn't really." Michele types and checks the time, she has 10 minutes before she needs to drop Chris with Paula and leave for the hospital. Chris is in his car seat in the back, waving two plastic toys about ecstatically; Johnny's Minecraft zombie figurine and the Dalmatian from PawPatrol. It's either battle royal, or a dance party going on back there, either way he's happy for a few minutes.

"How are you anyway, how's study and home… and everything?" Michele types.

"A little messy.. working on doing better." Michele nods to herself, Cat's finding study an uphill slog still, and she and her Mother have their moments. "Are you planning to write anything for Sam's birthday?"

"Write anything for Sam's Birthday?" She asks.

"May 2nd

I keep forgetting you haven't been in the fandom long.

The fandom worked it out.

May 2nd is 6 months before November 2nd, Sam was exactly 6 months old when yellow eyes infected him with the demon blood and Mary burned.

The fandom celebrates Sam's birthday by writing fanfiction stories, it is traditional now."

Michele grimaced… 'The fandom.' Is she part of 'the fandom'? The 'not a fan' program her church did the year before comes to mind. The idea that if something or someone was intrinsically part of your everyday life, you weren't a fan. So, yeah, by that logic not a fan...

Sam, he _loves_ fanfiction ...not! So many of those stories, well, they aren't something he wants to read… hers sure ain't.

If only he would read her story, then he'd know about Crowley... But no, it wouldn't change.

Poor Sam has even more reason to hate his birthday than she does. Being reminded that your brother sold his soul for you, was tortured in Hell for forty years...

Yeah, no.

"Let's just say I'll have my hands full of TTYH." She replies, trying for tact, rather than doing a rant about weird 'fandom' practices. Cat and the others think the Winchesters are just book characters.

"You could make it part of your story." Cat coaxes.

"The dream you wrote of Sam… it was like he wished M to care about his birthday, to celebrate it."

Michele taps her phone against the steering wheel and wonders if Cat is right. Dreams are a stripped down version of our hopes and fears, she read that once.

"You ruined all that sweetness when you turned it into a nightmare, made him worried about Lucy's love child, everything was spoiled."

A sad emoji popped up.

"Sometimes, I hate your story.

No offence intended M

I just miss the happy of the beginning."

Michele bit at her lip and felt her eyes sting. "Sometimes, I hate it too my Sweetest Cat. AND I really miss the happy too."

"Maybe it is all the rain you see now.

I will send you photos of my Mika cat and her kittens in the sun, like you did for me, with photos of your Slinky cat.

You made me smile, this is what friends are for.

To remind each other the sun will return." Cat offers sweetly.

"That would be nice, give Mika a hug for me. I better get going. We are parked outside the school and I need to drop Mr 2 off to my friend before my appointment."

"Will do. Drive safely my friend."

"Always do, Luv ya to Slovenia and back Cat!"

"Love you too M."

A cute GIF of two cartoon characters hugging pops up on the screen.

...

Transfusions aren't very good for doing most things, pinned down as you are by tubing and needles, but you do get lots of time to think.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam woke next morning with an aching head.

Dean had swept in, gifted him coffee and a breakfast burrito, was now hogging the shower.

Waiting his turn, Sam sipped at his coffee and started checking emails.

There was an email from Michele.

Oddly it was a video file.

He clicked to open it.

"Hey Sam." Michele flashed the camera a nervous smile, pushed her hair back out of her face and lifted her chin like she was bracing herself.

"Sooo uhh, one of my fic friends tells me it's your birthday…"

Sam frowned, he and Dean weren't exactly great celebrators of birthdays, but… yeah, he checked the date on his screen, today was May 1st.

As if she could hear his thoughts, she gave the camera a rueful half smile. "And I bet you're all ready to tell me how I have it wrong. Cos you're a smarty pants Sam Winchester. But you see, my friend, you're forgetting the facts. I not only _see_ the future, _I live in it._ Here in New Zealand _it is_ May 2nd and I know you hate many things about American May 2nd...but Kiwi May 2nd... Today… there's no stain on it. So, let's make a deal, you can have Kiwi May 2nd and I'll take American March 21st off your hands, so it's even swaps…

I don't have your address … underground bunker in Kansas isn't exactly in the phone book."

She shrugged, tilted her head and gave the camera one of her wide-eyed looks, then lifted a bowl off the countertop beside her.

Under it was an iced cupcake, there was a candle on top and SAM written across it carefully in red icing.

"It'd be green, furry … and partially evolved by the time you got it anyway… So, we're gonna go with 'it's the thought that counts,' okay?"

She gave the camera a nervous look, lit the candle, then proceeded to sing Happy Birthday.

Halfway through, a second voice chipped in enthusiastically, she laughed and lifted the toddler up onto her hip so he was in shot with her.

Sam hummed in the back of his throat, felt his eyes burn at the gesture, Michele was too much! She always surprised him. Shaking his head he couldn't help smiling.

As the song ended both she and the kid blew out the candle together.

"Happy Birthday Sam, luv ya to America and back. Sam, remember this okay, you are worth celebrating. Don't forget it, please." She asked and gifted him another warm smile from half a world away, then the video cut out.

He sat for a long while, in the small pocket of warmth Michele had created.

Until, Dean cleared his throat from the bathroom doorway, it made him jump. "Showers all yours Sammy." His brother rumbled.

Sam closed the laptop guiltily, then stood and pushed past his brother into the bathroom.

…ooo0ooo…

"Hey, Mitch."

"Hi Dean." Michele let out a breath, she'd hesitated to answer, but hearing his voice, she's glad she did.

"You doin okay?"

Michele bites her lip, and feels a shiver of guilt run through her. The urge to spill her guts rises up, she thinks of Johnny and pushs the urge to spill away quickly.

"I've been better, and I've been worse," she replies. It's a hedging reply but it's truthful.

"Yeah, know the feeling…" Dean's voice is weary, there's a sound like rain in the background. "Hey ah… just wanted to let you know…" He cleares his throat and takes a breath. "Eileen turned up dead couplea days ago."

Michele tries unsuccessfully to muffle her sound of pained surprise.

"O-h Dean… I'm so sorry." Her voice comes out like a whisper around the lump in her throat, tears prick her eyes. "I'm so sorry..." she repeats again, feeling sad for all the things that can never be now for Sam.

"Yeah… me too. Eileen was … good people." Dean lapses in to silence. "Sam's been …" Dean stops again, seems to struggle with what to say next. "Let's just say it's been a crappy week… Thought I oughta let you know…. And uh, say thanks for sendin' him that message."

"Yeah..." she half coughs, feeling embarrassed, "seems kind of stupid now."

"Nah, made him smile. Sometimes… a lotta the time, this life sucks Mitch, you… I dunno … you help. It's … it's good, ya know."

They both breath into the silence for a while.

"How? How did she die, Dean?" She asks, almost scared of the answer. Eileen's a Hunter. Dean always said in Edlund's books, that Hunter's stories end either sad or bloody… Michele fears Eileen's has ended both.

But, Eileen dedicated her life to saving others. Michele feels she ought to know. That it should be recorded in the Winchester gospel… God willing.

"Dunno, that's the kicker. Highway patrol found her car, run off the road, found her body in the woods… Looked like a Hellhound got her, but there was nothin', no real evidence. That sonofabitch Crowley says it wasn't one of his douches…"

Michele frowns. Woods? … A spike of pain catches her off guard, before she can think further, her head floods with images and voices.

….

Michele comes back, gasping for air and filled with horror.

Hears Dean barking her name like she's a puppy he's trying to call to heel.

Eileen had been the person she saw running through the woods … and now she is dead.

"Dean… vision… I'm, I'm okay." She breathes.

"What didya see?"

"When Sam called Crowley… About Eileen. Crowley, he didn't lie to Sam, I could feel that…

All of the Hellhounds _are_ accounted for… it wasn't a demon thing, I'm sorry.

Crowley, he's … almost obsessed with finding Cas, Kelly and her child.

Even - even that thing I saw before, where he tortured the demon … in a convoluted way, it was all about that too…

That and … revenge.

Crowley, he sort of sees you guys as… his?"

Dean makes a choking sound in her ear.

"Yeah, I know…" She agrees. "I'm not telling you to trust him or anything, he'll happily stab you in the back if it suits his purposes. But… I think _that's_ why he saved Castiel. That.. Possessive ugh... thing - I can't explain it, but after a fashion he's… happier because you guys are in the world."

Dean makes a harsh barking sound, something that could be taken as anything, from agreement to derision or disgust.

She doesn't ask for clarification, too overwhelmed with a sudden fear that she'd said too much. That at some point she'll have to write this conversation and Crowley will read it.

"Dean I'm so sorry about Eileen. I wish I had answers that helped more."

So much guilt, if only she'd known more, been able to work it all out… She wonders if Eileen would be alive, if she'd just drunk the demon blood Crowley had offered her that day. She shoves those thoughts away, feeling confused and shakey.

"You _do_ help Mitch." Dean mutters. "You should rest, yeah? Know the visions kick your ass."

"Yeah…" She agrees.

"Good girl."

That drags a huff of annoyance out of her "Condescending much Winchester?!" She grouses and cuts the call, before he can get a word of response in.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam leaned against the impala, phone cradled against his ear. Glad to be out of the car and standing after a long day driving..

He's left this particular call till last. Dean's in the post office clearing their PO Box; picking up the next batch of fraudulent credit cards, they've got a system, apply for credit cards using PO boxes states away, then bounce them around a few times through mail forwarding.

"I don't know what else to tell you Sam. I agree it's passing strange what with so many Hunters dying, but they're all dying from different things. Every Hunter that has fetched up on my doorstep says the same. I will, of course give you a call if I hear anything. In the mean time, be safe." Lorraine Fox seemed more sanguine than she'd been at Asa's wake.

She hadn't mentioned Alicia's death and Sam hadn't brought it up. He wonders distantly if Max has even called his grandmother. He wonders if Lorraine would have taken his call if Max had.

"Yeah. Yeah, no, I appreciate it. Thanks."

They hang up as he sees Dean coming down the post office steps.

"So I've been calling around about all of the Hunters that died. Um, every one of them had years of experience..."

Dean didn't answer, his eyes still on the mail in his hand, he's frowning.

"We got a letter, from Eileen." Dean announced without looking up.

"Eileen?" Sam pushes himself up off the car.

"She sent it four days ago. It went snail mail 'cause she thought that her phone and her computer were both hacked. She left Ireland because she was scared." Dean gives him a slow blink.

"Scared of what?" Sam demanded, staring at his brother's face with a sinking feeling.

"Well, after she accidentally killed that – that Brit douche Renny, she thought that the British Men of Letters were on her." Dean handed him the letter.

Sam scanned the letter in his hands "I know they're following me, watching me. They tapped my phone. I found a microphone in my room." Sam read out loud, feeling his throat tighten. "I hate to be all girly, but could I bunk with you guys for a few days until I sort this out?" He barely got the last word out. Rolling his eyes skyward Sam struggled to blink back tears, find control… how long after she posted this had Eileen died?

"You think the Brits were watching her?" Dean asked.

Eileen wasn't a paranoid nut job. She'd always struck him as someone with her feet firmly on the ground.

"If Eileen says they were –" he gritted his teeth.

"Then maybe they're the ones that killed her." Dean grated.

He'd never trusted the Men of Letters, and with Ketch lying about seeing Mom... it made a horrible sort of sense.

Feeling sick, he nodded agreement.

A thought hit him, "Dean, Mick said…"

"Yeah, I remember. Those assholes have a key to our house."

"That means …"

"We better sweep the bunker, Yeah."


	94. Chapter 94: Not What I Pictured

Chapter 94: Not what I pictured

 **Chapter 94**

Demons don't need to eat or sleep, they don't per se need furniture either.  
And yet here Crowley sits, on his throne staring down at an endless stream of twisted souls, listening to their endless boasting, attempts to curry favour, petty disputes and whining.  
It is something he once revelled in, but now it's a chore, this giving the minions something to believe in.

Knows, if he doesn't, one of the hierarchy upstarts will get ideas above their station and begin looking at the vacant throne.

So, he makes the effort, trots downstairs regularly, signs his name to the paperwork and presides over the kingdom of the damned, just enough to allow the minions to feel like the reins are in good hands.  
Visibility is currency, and image is everything.

It is his sentence in Hell.

Bored beyond words, Crowley screens out the current demon's waffling petition and looks out over the heaving sea of supplicants.  
God created a finite number of angels, but the damned are a renewable resource…  
The problem isn't the quantity here, it's the _quality_ of said supply. He muses over this, and realises that he's tapping his foot impatiently, again.  
Stops himself and goes back to gazing out at the crowd, makes a game of staring intensely at a random individual in the sea, savours the looks of guilty panic and terror that being singled out elicits from the riffraff.  
Everyone's a sinner, so sayith the latest Prophet of the Lord.

Crowley wonders if he has done enough pretending to care yet.

Too many of the demons coming off the racks are imbeciles nowadays, maybe it's the raw material. Secretly, Crowley blames the internet, mass media and westernised school systems for it, this endless parade of imitators and copycats, none of them are capable of true sui generis, that je ne sais quoi that makes a demon of distinction.

Maybe it's the rack staff….  
True, Alistair was a complete psycho. He _liked_ Hell. No one with anything resembling sense likes Hell….  
Alistair had been however, Picasso with a blade…

The new yobbos are like the proverbial bull in the china shop by comparison. No finesse.

Now the dust has cleared, he almost wishes he'd kept Meg. After her incompetence and exorcism at the hands of the flannel brigade, her sponsor, Azazel, had gifted her to Alistair for a bit. Remedial training, apparently.  
One on one, close up and personal with the fine arts of torture.

She had been a whore, but by all accounts, she had been a passably intelligent, skilled whore.

She had certainly given him some fun, from the opposite end of the sharp and pointies.

It was a crying shame, all Alistair's prodigies were Lucifer loyalists, and had to be liquidated.

Excepting Dean, of course… he'd held up such high hopes for dearest Squirrel, when Metatron poked a hole in him and he rose as a knight of Hell. Thanks to the mark of Cain, he, Crowley had procured for him.  
Pity Demon!Dean had no more gratitude in him than the flannel clad, hunter version; that he was uncontrollable and more interested in porking blonde, dead-end, skank waitresses and singing bad karaoke, than doing something useful with his new-found power.  
Pity he'd acted out and forced Crowley's hand, made his number one Bestie sell him back to angst ridden, deep-ending Moose. Who, of course, cured him and made him all woebegone and angsty again. _Winchesters!_ it was like throwing pearls before swine, such a waste! Dean had been one of Alistair's last real prodigies.  
Crowley remembers going down there to the racks with Lilith once. Watching Alistair work on him, in the early days, not long after the righteous man, breaker of the first seal, climbed down off the rack.

Crowley recalls the flutterings of a vague jealousy, watching Alistair croon in the soul's ear about his potential, what an apt pupil he was, how even in the death camps of Poland, Alistair had never found anyone close to Deans raw talent - Then had come that momentary twitch of Dean's lips, the fleeting glimmer of pride in his eye. Followed by that horrified realisation of how he'd responded – It Prompted Dean to turn the blade upon himself in a fit of self-loathing;  
Lilith and Alistair had laughed like a pair of fond parents over it.

Then, the Halos came and plucked him away. Michael's one true vessel, who could never just pull with the program. Thank Chuck for small mercies!

Sam and Dean Winchester, saviours of the human race _and demon kind_ , even if the two mutton heads couldn't cognise the fact. Crowley could. Without humanity, demon kind would be a dead-end species like angels. Or just all dead.

Lucifer cared nothing for demons. Lilith was his first, yet in the end she was nothing more to The Morning Star than another seal to break. They were all just fodder, broken toys to throw at what Lucifer hated most, humanity…

Crowley had worked it out after Lilith, if Lucifer hated humanity and blamed it for his fall from God's supreme favourite, his contempt for demon kind came a close second.

Crowley wonders what Dean's doing right now.

Have he and Moose worked out that the British Men of Letters are behind the death of Eileen Leahy, and the other subpar Hunters? Has their little mongrel Prophet caved and told them what big bad Crowley is threatening to do with her precious offspring? These are the things that really pique his interest, not the endless disputes of the dead.

Crowley draws out the blood encrusted handkerchief, the one he used to mop the prophet's bloody face, holds it to his nose and breaths in deeply. Reminiscing on the moments in the park, he feels a familiar craving raise its head.

With an irritated wave he vaporises the current whining petitioner.

"And that concludes today's audience with The King." He declares, voice pitched to carry to the furthest reaches, and gets to his feet. "You all have more productive things to do. I advise you to do them. _**Now!**_ "

Fearing the worst, a surge of demons scramble over each other for the exits.

With a flick of his hand he vaporises a few of the lesser stragglers, making sure to get that one demon, the one that held his stare for far too long, the little prat had practically been loitering! Now he could loiter on the floor, as dust.

Occasionally, it paid to be a little unpredictable, to remind the ranks of lesser demons of the sheer power he wielded.

…..

Returning topside, the King of Hell pours himself a tumbler of Craig and collapses into the chair behind his ornate black oak desk.

He dips the corner of the bloody handkerchief he's still holding into the scotch. Savours a mouthful, rolling the liquor over his tongue languidly, trying to identify the various subtle notes of flavour, his scotch with a twist.

After a while Crowley pulls out his phone and scrolls through the emails he isn't willing to trust one of his many people to deal with.

More chapters of the continuing saga await him. He dives in eagerly, looking forward to seeing himself immortalised in print once more. The voyeurism aspect to the whole thing is, quite frankly delicious. And the scenes with Chirone had been _rather_ enjoyable also...

If only team free will knew what he'd sold off to the British Men of letters…

…ooo0ooo…

Michele is standing waiting for the lift, up to the blood sampling laboratory, with her toddler attempting to pickpocket the car keys, when she gets a call from a blocked number.  
It's not unusual, she gets two or three calls from blocked numbers a day, they're usually from the hospital.

"Hello, Michele Chadwick speaking, how can I help?" She enquires brightly while pulling a face at Chris to make him giggle.

"What the Hell is this!" The replying voice snarls - It is the kind of voice you'd expect in response to a 1am prank call, not one calling you at 9.30am. Obviously, the rude person on the other end has the wrong number.

"I'm very sorry, I think you've got the wrong…" she began.

"Prophets can't lie my arse; your latest communiqué is a giant load of tosh." The gruff English accented voice sneered, and suddenly it made sense.

"Crowley?" She questions, hoping she's wrong.

"Ding, ding, ding, give the woman a stuffed bear."

Michele pushed her hair out of her face with a sigh.

"Crowley, how …? No, never mind." She sighs wearily, "I know you're a demon, but let me explain something. Just because you don't like what you read, or it's full of grammar errors, it doesn't mean it's not true." The lift arrived, she took Chris' hand and led him inside. Pushed the button with the hand holding the phone.  
When she puts the phone back to her ear, the line is dead. Crowley has hung up.

"Lovely, demons are worse than teenaged girls _and_ Winchesters." She mutters to herself in disgust shoving her phone back in her pocket.

"Untrue!" An annoyed gravelly voice to her left makes her jolt and yip in surprise.

She turns slowly, to face the Monarch and steps between the demon and her son as inconspicuously as possible. Crowley scowls at her and crosses his arms, all impeccable black suit, scruffy beard and beetled eyebrows.

"Crowley! Don't…" She winces and stops herself (people like Crowley don't respond well to being told not to do things, she still remembers his response to her saying No to the demon blood.)

"I'm not saying the whole irate stalker that doesn't like the writers latest work thing didn't sell novels for Steven King... But … I really don't understand _."_

"Come now Poppet, you know damn well! I don't pay you to write flights of fantasy."

The lift doors opened, and Michele stepped out.

"Strictly speaking you don't pay me at all, Crowley. And if you didn't like reading the portrayal of you, pushing me round and threatening my son, I can't help that."

Crowley followed her out of the lift.

He stood uncomfortably close, something she really hated tall men doing. It made her so much more aware of how small and vulnerable she was by comparison. Which Crowley probably knew, she betted it was a technique he learned in his first year, demonic intimidation class.

"That's not the bit I find offensive Darling, it was the non-sexual fantasy in the middle."

"Well, I'm sorry my fic doesn't have enough sex scenes for your liking. Go read something off of AO3 if you want that sort of thing and leave me and my family alone.  
I write what I have to, what happens, I don't have a choice, okay?

You turned up in _my_ kitchen, thinking I'm a dodo… thinking I'm ugly and frumpy... This," she waved a hand, "is how mums, who have a lot going on, look! Especially the ones who aren't self absorbed bitches! Maybe, if your mother had spent more time being a Mum and less time studying witchcraft and social climbing, maybe _you_ wouldn't be a demon, and we'd all be better off!" She flared, pushed through the swing doors into the waiting room, gave the receptionist her test request form and took a seat. Sat taking deep even breaths, Crowley was even more infuriating than Dean!

Crowley sat down next to her and looked at her weirdly, stroking the beard stubble beside his mouth.

"Give me a brief synopsis of that chapter, Poppet." He requested in a totally different tone of voice.

"You read it, why…" Crowley just stared at her and raised an eyebrow.

"Fine!" She huffed, "You appeared in my kitchen. Thought I was… not up to standards." She outlined, trying to keep the resentment out of her voice. "You stuck your fingers in my cupcake batter, and then you offered me the demon blood. I turned it down, then you threatened me and pushed me round for a bit. Told me I'd do what you wanted, _because you're the King of Hell_. Then you suddenly changed your mind. Threatened Johnny and said I'd better give you spoilers and not tell the Winchesters anything. Then vanished."

Crowley grunted, looked like he was thinking about something very hard and fished out a pair of dirty handkerchiefs from his coat pocket. It looked like he licked them. Ugh!

"Bollocks, it's the same." He muttered grumpily under his breath, side-eyeing her, then turned to stare at her intently again.

Ten minutes of weird looks and strained silence later, a phlebotomist came out and called her name. Ignoring Crowley, she carried Chris into the bleeding room and put him on a chair in the corner and gave him her phone to watch some PawPatrol on.

Crowley followed them in uninvited, and loomed behind the nurse while she checked the details on the forms and labelled the tubes, placed a tourniquet, found a vein, and took the required blood tubes…

It was creepy how intently Crowley watched the needle go in and the blood tubes fill.

But then, Michele supposed, he was a demon, wasn't he? It _was_ sort of to be expected. Of course, he liked watching someone hurt her.

Once everything was over with, Crowley followed her back into the lift.

Michele began to worry that the demon intended following her round all day.

"Next stop is the library for us." She voiced, hoping he'd take the hint.

It didn't work.

"Lovely! The children's librarian with the gravity defyingly short dress. Do lead on Darling. Refreshments after, are on you." He smirked sounding chipper and enthusiastic.

Internally Michele groaned and wondered if she could risk reciting an exorcism to get rid of him.

…

Upon entering the children's section, Crowley stopped dead. "That? That's _her_ isn't it?!" The demon hissed turning betrayed, offended eyes down to her.

Despite herself, a small snort of amusement slipped out as she looked back up at him. "Yes." She answered demurely, "that's Stephanie. And keep your voice down, you're embarrassing me."

"Embarrassing you?!" Crowley dragged her around the corner by her arm; puffed up and pissed off, like a wet cat. He pulled out a phone and began scrolling through her story on it.

It wasn't difficult to guess what he was up to, he was looking for ammunition to call her a liar, again.

Finally, The King of Hell grunted and shoved the phone back into his coat pocket looking miffed.

" _That_ , that was _not_ what I pictured." He muttered shortly.

"With Men, it never is." She rolled her eyes. "Yes, okay I admit it, it's sort of jarring and I would never have the balls or confidence to pull it off. But…you know... her legs _are_ her best feature… if you look at it objectively... Why _shouldn't_ she flaunt them?"

Crowley gave her a baleful glare.

"Us mums find her inspirational, I mean… wow! That right there" she gestured back towards the children section, "is the epitome of self confidence and being happy in your own skin… no matter what others think. And okay, maybe I've got a bit of horrified fascination going on with it too... but mostly I'm in awe …" She shrugged her shoulders feeling a little embarrassed.

"It's unseemly," Crowley pouted "like staring at a hippo on stilts." He shuddered theatrically.

"Crowley." She bit out, "if you cause a scene… I've got consecrated salt in my pocket and I _will_ use it."

Crowley raised an eyebrow and tilted his head challengingly.

"Into a bit of S&M are we kitten? And you pretend butter wouldn't melt in your mouth! I promise, I won't tell Samantha if you want to go somewhere and experiment..."

She felt her mouth drop open in shock, felt her cheeks heat, felt a bit like puking.

"I just think you're a hypocrite, _and_ have no manners, you're complaining about how some woman dresses because she's not 100% gorgeous and here you are. Quite literally as ugly as sin, wearing a corpse!" She answered snippily after far too much time had passed for it to be a decent come back.

"Bet you and your little Mommy friends speculate on whether the Minger's wearing underwear, don't you Pet? You're all like rubber-neckers at an accident scene, admit it." The demon smirked and gave her an obnoxiously knowing look, as Chris dragged her back towards the children's section.

Michele didn't answer.

Crowley trailed after them.

The demon was fiddling with something in his pocket, looking edgy. Why he didn't just leave, was beyond her.  
The King of Hell stuck out like a sore thumb in his black designer suit and tie.

Spying a copy of 'Slinky Malinki's Cat Tales' she took it down off the shelf and handed it to him.

"Here." she offered.

He took it, prowling the edges of the children's space, as he flicked through the storybook.

Catching a glimpse of the illustration of Scarface Claw confronting himself in the mirror, Michele couldn't help smiling. She couldn't help but think that deep down, Crowley had a bit in common with the fictional Tom Cat.

Crowley hung round awkwardly, at the back, throughout all the action songs, and Michele left him to it, focused on her son. She couldn't stop herself from keeping an eye on him though, felt tense and jittery, waiting for trouble.  
Then, halfway through Stephanie reading the second story, he vanished, book still in hand.

Five minutes later the blood lab called to apologetically tell her they'd missed drawing a blood tube, and could she please come back in. Funny thing was, she knew they'd drawn all the blood they needed for the ordered tests.

…..

 _ **One day, a demon followed us to story time, he came all dressed in black.**_

 _ **He looked rather uncomfortable and lurked round at the back.**_

 _ **As demons go, he behaved himself, I will admit to that.**_

 _ **Only made the lights flicker once, and left sulphur on the mat.**_

 _ **I don't know why he followed us, maybe he just wanted to look.**_

 _ **At the librarians very short dress, and to steal the Slinky book.**_

 _ **Demons visit story time, so please don't talk to strangers.**_

 _ **Even at the library, dear child, the world is full of dangers.**_

…ooo0ooo…

Two hours later while Michele was feeding Chris lunch, she had a vision.

The first part was a fleeting view of Crowley. Sitting behind an opulent desk. Sinking the needle of a silver syringe into his arm. Sighing and letting his head fall back.

The other was of the blonde man/demon Crowley kept chained in his basement.

…

"Check it again." The blonde man snarled threatningly, with his hands wrapped round the neck of the dark skinned man ?or demon? The one that had been hiding behind the door in a previous vision. The blonde man pushed the other away roughly, he fell back, coughing and looking panicked.

Then, struggling to compose himself, he rubbed his hands together and took a deep breath, held out his hands like he was trying to sense heat with his palms of his hands.

"This...this can't be." He stammered looking shocked.

"Do not tell me it's powering up." The blonde chided forbiddingly.

"It's powering up – "

"I asked you not to tell me that." The blonde snapped.

"But in the opposite direction! This is amazing!" The dark man enthused.

"What?"

"The device, it's cemented directly into your DNA, and that of the King's. As it's powering down in you, the polarity is somehow... reversing."

The blonde shook his head in incomprehension. "English, Drexel!" He snapped again.

"The ability to control is... transferring from Crowley, to you."

The blonde grinned and held up a hand "…So you're saying ...that Crowley's gonna be _my_ puppet!"

Drexel nodded back and grinned.


	95. Chapter 95: Such a Little Thing

**Chapter 95: Such a little thing**

 **Chapter 95**

They searched the bunker from top to bottom, hoping against hope to find nothing.

It took hours, just to search the areas they used most often; through all the dust and clutter, they and the previous men of Letters had collected. Every dusty shelftop, dark corner, jar, box and container… It was a mammoth task.

When he finally found something, Dean had to close his eyes and fight the spike of rage he felt, the urge to swear and throw things in fury.

Such a little thing, but it signified so much. The small listening device was under the map table in the war room.

It was right where he liked to sit, and clean the weapons, beside the holster with his emergency gun.

Such a little thing.

The placement felt personal. Said that whoever invaded their home, planted it there, knew them, or how they worked. Knew their routines and was mocking them.

Dean wanted to Kill the bastards!

Instead, he waved a hand to signal Sam, pointed meaningfully at what he'd discovered.

Sam crouched down beside him and peered at the bug hidden under the map-table. When he saw it, he winced and clenched his fist, let out a slow hissing breath, his hazel eyes narrowed in rage.

Had Mick planted the bug on the night they'd all got drunk together?  
Despite himself, Dean had begun to think of Mick as a good guy, had even been concerned over his silence, since his 'recall to home office.' Was that whole thing a play?

Maybe the bug had been planted before that? Maybe Ketch planted it, when he turned up at the door with that bottle of Whiskey, before the thing with the vamps?  
Dean would rather blame Ketch than Mick, there was something about Ketch that never sat right, he had all the characteristics of a human being but not a single identifiable emotion. A proper English psychopath, one who kept looking at him like they were kindred spirits. It creeped him out.

Or…. had the damned listening device been lurking under the map-table since Toni Bevell broke in and stole Sam?

 _Sonofabitch!_ Dean whacked his balled fist into his thigh, making Sam flinch beside him.

They'd never thought to check for something like listening devices. Every conversation they'd had in the war room or library was a possible leak to an unknown enemy.

Their private lives laid bare, held up for scrutiny and mockery.

Who ever was responsible was gonna pay!

Dean glanced at Sam's face again. It had taken Sam forever to feel safe after having Lucifer in the bunker, after the Bitch of Letters waltzed in and abducted him.

This clawed those same wounds open again, exposed his brother's flayed nerves, again.

Sam hid it well, but Dean knew the signs.

Why hadn't they even thought of the possibility? Damnit!

Why'd they been so stupid?

They'd thought the bunker was impenetrable, safe, a fortress... but the brother torturing assholes had had them where they wanted, the entire time.

Or had they?

They needed to use this to turn the tables. Their enemy knew they were suspicious about the Hunter deaths and Moms disappearance, but they didn't know about Eileen's letter, they didn't know they knew about the listening device.

Time for the overconfident assholes to learn what it felt like to be the prey, what it was to be Hunted.

"Those Hunters you were talking to, is one of them Terry Marsh?" Dean finally broke the silence, waving a hand for his brother to run with it.

"Yeah, Terry Marsh in Missouri. I talked to him. He, uh, he's also thinking it's not monsters doing the real killing." Sammy played along.

"Okay, well, I got a text from him. He's been nosing around, says he's got a fair idea of what's going on."

"And?"

"And, he doesn't feel safe talking about it on the phone. He wants to meet.

The old iron works off the interstate." The iron works was a place they'd scoped many times, it was the perfect place to set up an ambush, "Tomorrow night at 9:00. He says park off the road by the warehouse."

"All right." Sam clenched his fist.

They've set a trap, now it just remained to be seen what they would catch.

"Til then, tomorrow's your birthday, like the lady said..." Sam tensed and gave him a hard look, didn't like him mentioning Mitch one bit.  
Dean raised an eyebrow and rolled his head in return, silently asking if Sam thought he was a complete idiot, or if he was just that over protective.  
Sam shrugged, his bottom lip poking out slightly in an expression that screamed 'yeah kinda,' in reply.

Dean let a breath trickle slowly from his nostrils.  
Until they worked out how long they've been under surveillance, how deep it went, and who was behind it… they needed to keep everyone and everything that mattered at arms length.

"…I'm thinkin' we oughta go out, celebrate. Paint the town a nice tasteful shade of beige… or whateva your aging heart desires." He continued the conversation.  
Sam's mouth twitched once, in something resembling apology and nodded.

"Speak for yourself, aging heart pffftt!" Sam scoffed, "No matter how you cut it, Dean. You've got 4 years on me. And I'm not pursuing suicide by cholesterol, with every meal." Sam's reply sounds perfectly easy when it comes, but his face is not, he turns and stomps up the bunker's stairs.

Half way up, Sam's phone began chiming with a Skype call.

Sam rejected it without a word. Turned off his Skype app. Dean pulled out his phone and did likewise.

…ooo0ooo…

They drove to nearby Smith Centre, the closest town with a movie theatre. Leaving the impala parked outside they entered the theatre building and hastily changed clothes in the rest room, then left by a fire exit into an alley.

Sam boosted a car and they drove to the iron works to check the lay of the land and set their trap.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam and Dean arrived at the old ironworks plant just before 9pm, it was dark, a chill had already settled into the air, and the first spits of rain were falling.

Dean bitched about the potholes and mud as they climbed out of the impala, the backs of their necks itched, a feeling of being watched. Most likely their prey would be parked behind the bushes or shipping containers. Close, but not too close. The lighting from the warehouse where the impala was parked, would draw the eye.

Striding easily, a conversation about the imaginary Hunter Terry Marsh flowing between them, they looked for all the world completely at ease, as they walked around to the side of the building, and up the stairs.

They left the door open behind them, crossed the space and exited silently out a side entrance, locking it.  
Circled back, just in time to see two men dressed in black combat fatigues, carrying guns, go stealthfully up the stairs.  
Before the men realised it was a trap, Sam slammed the door shut, and Dean barred it with a hefty length of iron piping, he had ready.

"They're just grunts," Dean muttered distainfully, "hope who ever's behind this shitshows waitin' with their transport."

"If not, we'll have to go back in, interrogate them."

Dean nodded shortly.

Together the brothers circled back around, loping silent through the darkness.  
A new model black car came into view. Right where they expected.  
Inside, sat a lone figure.  
The slight stature, lack of bulky combat gear and the glint of jewellery at throat and ears, proclaimed it was a woman. Someone in charge.

She was holding a gun, looked tense.

Sam faltered half a step. Abruptly recognising Toni Bevell.

He looked across, met Dean's eyes. In the darkness, Dean's face was set in hard lines of fury, as if he too had recognised who they were facing.

Exchanging nods, they took up their positions, either side of the car.

Sam rammed the iron bar he carried, into the passenger window.  
Shattering it, and drawing Toni's attention and fire; as his brother ripped open Toni's door and grabbed her gun. Tossed it away.

Toni came out of the car fighting. Kneed Dean in the balls. Dived for the gun.  
Her hand _almost_ closed on it, but Sam was there.  
He planted his boot down hard on it. Gun aimed at her head.

Toni climbed to her feet, hands raised, eyes never leaving his.

Toni Bevell, the woman who starred in nightmares, stared at him assessingly. Her blue eyes were cold and hard, faintly amused.

Despite the fact he held a gun on her, she looked at him scornfully, in a way that said she remembered their previous time together. Knew, now that their roles were reversed he'd never have it in him, to do to her what she had done to him, and thought less of him for it.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam kept his gun trained on Toni in the back of the impala, body half turned in his seat, beside Dean.

As yet, she hadn't said a word, just stared back at him looking aloof and cool.

"Why you spying on us? Oh- and what do you know about Eileen Leahy?" He finally broke the silence.

"Who?" Toni asked, giving him a mockingly confused look.

"Did you – did – did your people, did they kill her?" Dean grated from beside him.

"Probably." Toni smiled and tilted her head. The brothers exchanged a quick look, as she continued. "Rule of thumb – if you think we killed someone, then we probably did." She informed them primly.

"Speaking of, you do realize that by attacking me, you invite the retribution of the entire British Men of Letters? No Investigation, no trial. Just punishment and ruin. Possibly at the hands of Mary Winchester." Sam flinched at their mothers name, glanced to Dean.

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" His brother snarled.

"Your mother – she's our permanent guest."

"She's your prisoner?" Sam asked. "Why?"

"Prisoner? Who said anything about prisoner? No, Mary's joined the team. Even has her own super secret decoder ring." Toni mocked.

Sam shook his head with a hiss of derision, "You're lying."

"You're right. There is no ring." Toni tilted her head and smiled. "Oh, boys and their mums," she cooed. "See, you see her as Mummy.

We see her as one of our best killers."

"You know, just 'cause she works with Ketch doesn't mean she likes him. Or you." Dean barked in reply.

"Oh, that Oedipal myopia again." Toni smiled condescendingly, leaned forward. "..And did you _really_ think she was just "working" with Ketch? All of those days _and nights?"_ A cultured purr of amusement.

Sam took a breath, felt ill. Could it be true? Beside him, Dean shifted.

"That's enough." He warned.

"…He said it was some of the best sex he'd ever had." She taunted.

Dean slammed on the breaks.

"You wanna rethink that?" He snarled turning to face her.

"Fine! He said it was _the_ best sex he'd ever had."

Dean lunged.

"Dean, Dean!" Sam called catching his arm, his grip trying to remind him there was more at stake than emotions, right now.

Toni laughed, delighted.

"All right." Sam warned.

"Keep it up." Dean invited fuming, and slammed his fists against the steering wheel.

"What about Mick? Where is he in all of this?"

"Mick?" Toni queried.

"Yes, Mick." He snapped in return.

"Oh," Toni's smiled looking at him like he was an idiot."Mick's dead."

Sam was shocked. "He's dead?" He asked stupidly, looking to Dean, feeling similtanious horror and relief at the news.

"Quite! It was determined he was too sentimental for the job. Turns out, he was too much like you two and all the other U.S. Hunters... Ergo, soon each and every Hunter in this country will join him. Jody Mills, Claire Novak, all of your other flannel-wearing, whiskey-swilling friends. They're dead."

Face like thunder, Dean planted his foot firmly on the accelerator.

…ooo0ooo…

Time to put the listening device in the bunker to work, Sam thought.

Dean led Toni Bevell down the bunkers stairs. Sam followed behind, gun unerringly trained on the British woman of Letters. Part of him begged for a reason to pull the trigger, but that would make him no better than her.

"So we're clear? You call Ketch, tell him if he wants to see you alive, he gets his prissy ass over here." Dean instructed.

As they stepped off the stairs, Ketch and a second man stepped out from behind the pillars that flanked the library enterance. Both were holding guns.

"Interestingly, his prissy ass is already here." He announced pompously.

Behind and to the sides, two further armed soldiers stepped out of cover, their weapons raised, blocking all the exits out of the war room, except the stairs they'd just come down.

"Lady Bevell, would you mind disarming them?"

Sam met his brother's eyes. Then raised his hands meekly, gun coincidadently pointed out to the side.

As Toni reached for his gun. Sam aimed and fired. Killing the guard on his side, and wrapped his other arm round Toni's throat, effectively turning her into a human shield. He knew, Dean was drawing his gun at the same moment, while Ketch and the others were watching him.

The guard on Dean's side fell dead moments later. Sam pulled Toni back towards cover, in the recently vacated doorway, down to the basement level.

From his position, Sam saw Ketch motion to the soldier beside him, saw the man go for the west corridor.

From opposite enterances the brothers shared another look, Sam jerked his head. (Go, he's circling behind, west corridor.) Dean moved off.

Sam took a couple more shots at Ketch.

Ketch returned them.

Distantly Sam heard a single shot from the west corridor.

Hoping the lone shot meant the guard was dead and Dean alive, Sam took more shots at Ketch; then Dean was there, sliding in and snatching Ketches gun out of his hand.

"Get up." Dean grated, gun against Ketch's neck.

"All right, Ketch, how many more guys are in here?"

"Our Mom – Where is she?!" Dean cut in.

Sam heard steps and glanced behind him to see his mother, walking up the steps from the basement level. Gun raised.

"Don't move." Mary Winchester advised.

"Ah, speak of the devil." Muttered Ketch.

"Perfect timing, Mom." Sam greeted.

"Just stay where you are." Mary suggested and Ketch bent as if to go for his gun.

"Hey! You heard her." Dean warned, jerking him upright again.

"I was talkin' to you." His mother told Dean, gun pointed right at him.

Dean's eyes widened in confusion. "Mom?"

Mary fired a shot, it richocetted off the the wall by Deans head and he flinched in shock, giving Ketch an opening to disarm him.

"Ketch, stop!" Sam barked.

"I really wouldn't move. She will shoot you." Ketch advised calmly both guns raised.

Mary walked up to him and took Sam's gun, then backed away, both guns trained on her sons.

Toni Bevell jerked out of Sam's grip. "Mummy always was a talented Hunter. Just somewhat confused about obeying orders."

"What did you do to her?" Sam demanded in horror, staring at his mother.

"Lady Bevell cleared up that confusion. And I suspect she told you that the American Hunters are a dying breed. Hmm?"

Toni smiled nastily at them and went to follow Mary and Ketch up the stairs to the enterance.

"Oh. For heaven's sake," Ketch chided raising his gun on her, "where do you think you're going?"

"Ketch." For the first time Toni looked shocked.

"Remember at Kendricks, how they taught us that we were all expendable? That wasn't idle chat."

Dean hadn't taken his eyes off their Mother, "Mom? Look at me."

Mary looked down from the mazzanine railing, both guns pointed at them still.

"It's us. Please! What's wrong with you? Mom!" Dean pleaded, again trying to get through to their Mom, but her face remained placid and detached, holding no recognition.

Ketch stepped to her side, smiling coolly down at them.

"Your bunker is an excellent fortress. An even better tomb. So, we've rejiggered the locks, we've shut off the water, and once we leave, the pumps that bring in the air, shall reverse. Your oxygen should be gone in … two days, maybe three. You dying in here, it's almost poetic, hmm?" He crowed, as if they should be impressed that he'd found an inventive way to kill them.

Ketch turned away from the railing, suddenly as if bored.

"Come along, Mary."

The bunker door slammed shut.

Dean dashed up the bunker's stairs and slammed his fists into the door.

"Noooo!" He screamed.

…ooo0ooo…

Hours ahead, half a world away, another voice joined him.


	96. Chapter 96: Inevitable

**Chapter 96: Inevitable**

 **Chapter 96**

Phillip Chadwick stared down at his wife's sleeping face and felt numb.

He'd almost lost her.

Paula said she'd had some kind of blackout, another nose bleed, that she'd been _really_ upset, tried calling someone, got more upset when the person didn't pick up. Then she'd run out the door and straight across the road.

She hadn't even looked.

Got hit by a car.

Michele could be dead, right now.

But she isn't, she's here, and mostly whole.

He hasn't lost her.

She has a broken wrist. They thought she had concussion, but she doesn't, she's covered in scrapes and has lost more blood...

The doctor just told him all that.

It feels so wrong, doctors are Michele's job, she knows what they're talking about, knows all the right questions to ask.

She can get lost even driving with a GPS, but she knows doctors and stuff.

Now he's lost, cut adrift, can't seem to keep up. She's his GPS for this.

He almost lost her...

But she's okay, he hasn't lost her ( _ **yet**_ … his traitorous mind whispers. Yet...)

 _She's okay,_ he tells himself again, strokes his hand over the tussled waves of her hair to calm himself.

"I don't understand," he says looking back to the doctor. "She's got blood, her wrists in a cast... so, why can't I take her home today?"

"You have to understand Mr Chadwick; your wife has been suffering from these nose bleeds persistently - for months."

"I know that, but you fixed it, right; with the transfusions?"

"We replaced her _red blood cells_ with the transfusions, we also replaced clotting factors, plasma and platelets… but we cannot replace her white blood cells. White blood cells are what protect a person from infection.

White blood cells are the body's soldiers. They protect against invasion, from things that make us ill… viruses, bacteria, fungi etcetera. The scrapes may seem like a small thing, but they are avenues for infection. Infection she hasn't got the resources to fight.

Right now, Michele's body can't produce white blood cells fast enough to replace what she loses from the chronic bleeding. Her blood films are full of immature granulocytes-White blood cells that aren't mature enough to do their job properly, they are being pushed into service too soon, before they're ready, like child soldiers, if you will.

We usually see this in leukaemia patients. But in your wife's case, her bone marrow is morphologically healthy, it just can't keep up with the demand for supply, because of the bleeding."

Phillip looked down at his wife, then away.

"So, give her some. White blood cells. New soldiers, whatever! Here." He held out his arm "take mine! I'm healthy."

"Mr Chadwick you don't understand… we can't… I'm sorry."

"Why not?! You fix people with cancer, leukaemia, why the Hell can't you fix her!"

"Your wife's problem is unique, her immune system isn't faulty or broken, just over taxed, quite literally drained… due to the blood loss… If I was a religious man I'd liken what she's suffering to stigmata…"

"Stigm…? They're _**nose bleeds**_!" He flared. "There're no holes in her hands, for Pete's sake! Instead of blaming …mysticism or something, how about you do your flaming job! Quit making excuses! Seriously, how hard can it be!" The doctor looked startled at his outburst and took a step back.

"Sir I didn't say it was…"

A small cool hand wrapped around his wrist and tugged once, "Phil… stop it. Yelling won't help." Michele chided weakly from the bed.

She was awake!

He looked down into his wife's wide green eyes with relief, plunged into and drank down that clear green, the flecks of gold, encompassed in those rings of deepest blue. Looking in her eyes he felt like a man lost in the desert, finding water.

"Hey," he whispered breathlessly, "how're you feeling?"

She gave him a wonky, rueful smile, "like a car hit me," she answered.

He choked a harsh laugh, one that was part sob. "One did!"

"Yeah… Sorry…" her hand slid up his arm as she struggled to sit up. She noticed her wrist, looked confused, then suddenly very upset.

"Where's my phone?" She asked, "Phil I need it, right now! Where's my phone?!" Her voice got higher, louder.  
Then she shivered. "How _long_ have I been here?" She demanded looking panicked.

" _ **I need my phone, Phil! Where is it!?"**_ She was really working herself up.

"You don't _need_ your phone, come on, Michele! You _need_ to rest." He soothed, trapping her hands in his, to stop her trying to remove the needles from her arm, stop her from climbing out of the bed. "What were you thinking?" He chided. "Paula said you ran out into the road… she said _you didn't even look!"_

"Phil please! I need my phone, I need to call…to make sure he knows…"

"The _car_ smashed your bloody phone Michele! Your phone isn't important! That car could have killed _you_! The kids are fine, you don't need to worry. You don't need your phone."

Michele shook her head furiously, tears brimming, her hands curled into his shirt, "I need my phone… Phil. You don't understand, I need … I have to tell him…" she stopped, looking frustrated, he could feel her shaking. She looked at him beseechingly, frozen, like someone who wanted to explain but just couldn't.

He knew that look, it was the one she got sometimes lately.

Like they were from two different worlds, and she couldn't get him to understand. It was so like the expression Johnny got on his face when he was locked inside himself because of the autism.

While Michele had been getting upset, a nurse had arrived.

She slid a needle into Michele's IV line.

A moment later Michele's eyes rolled back, and she went limp, the nurse lowered her back onto the pillows.

Phillip opened his mouth.

Angry.

Suddenly realising the nurse had knocked her out with the injection. He wanted to protest, ask why the heck she'd done it, when the doctor stepped between him and the nurse.

"Mr Chadwick can I talk to you in the hallway a moment, please."

Short circuited, he got to his feet and followed the doctor out, looked back over his shoulder at his wife as he walked through the door.

"Mr Chadwick, when your wife was admitted she was bleeding from her nose, eyes and ears."

Phil stopped dead at that. _Shit!_ That was like something out of a horror movie. Was that why the doctor had been going on about stigmata? Had her _brain_ been bleeding?

"…She was agitated and emotional, I'd even go as far as to say she was irrational. She kept repeating that she needed to stop something, to save 'him.' She tried to leave several times. Coupled with the bleeding from her nose, eyes and ears, this behaviour led us to believe that she might have some form of brain trauma.

The scans and other tests say otherwise. As far as we can tell, your wife does not have a brain injury, I can assure you we wouldn't be sedating her otherwise."

Yeah… concussions… you weren't supposed to let them sleep, right?

He scrubbed at his lips with his knuckles and wondered dumbly if this doctor, in his lab-coat and tie was younger than him… how could this guy possibly know enough to fix Michele… didn't they have a senior doctor somewhere…?

"Mr Chadwick does your wife have a history of mental health issues?"

Phillip gawped at him.

"... Depression, panic attacks? A family history of schizophrenia or bipolar disorder, perhaps? Has your wife ever attempted or spoken of wanting to commit suicide?"

"No! No! Nothing like that. What the Hell are you saying? …that she's …. No! Michele's not… are you crazy? She's not nuts. And… she just wouldn't … she'd tell me if she felt… or… Just... No! Okay?!

Look, she's just worried, our son… he's autistic... and she's his whole world, she's just worried he'll wig out when she's not there to pick him up from school."

Except that didn't really make sense, it wasn't like Johnny had a phone… she couldn't have wanted to call Johnny. Maybe she wanted to call the school? But saying she wanted to 'save him?' From what?

"She's just a Mum, a good Mum, okay… the rest of it, was… I don't know, an accident. Maybe she was dizzy… just didn't look before crossing the road...Just ….stop the damn nose bleeds and stop implying she's nuts! You're the one going on about stigmata…"

"We _are_ trying to stop the bleeding, Mr Chadwick, I can assure you of that.

That's why we want to keep her here, so we can monitor her and keep her on intravenous antimicrobials, clotting factors, all the other things she needs, to limit the chances of infection and more bleeding.

Your wife is extremely immuno-compromised, the best place for her right now is with us. In the mean time maybe, you can reassure her that your son is okay, that phone call…? It would help if we didn't have to keep sedating her."

"I'll go get him from school, bring him in." He offered in a rush. Michele never really relaxed when Johnny was out of her sight.

"We don't usually allow children to visit immune-compromised patients. Children spread germs Mr Chadwick, they don't mean to, but it's a fact of life. Besides, if he's autistic, he may become distressed upon seeing her current state. Just the phone call Mr Chadwick."

Phillip frowned, feeling like he'd been sideswiped. If Michele had been here she'd have made the doctor see, with a smile and a few subtle words, she'd have made it clear that she knew best and wasn't going to be dictated to. She'd have made a subtle jibe about patient rights or something, outlined what they'd do to make sure everyone got what they needed, and they'd roll out the red carpet for Johnny.  
Instead here he was, standing in the hallway looking at the doctors retreating back with his mouth half open, he probably had that look on his face too, the one Michele teasingly called his 'stunned mullet look.'

Phillip shut his mouth and rubbed the back of his neck, turned back to make his way to his wife's bedside, wondering how long it would be before she woke again.

One positive thing at least, with her phone getting smashed he could finally buy her that new iPhone he'd been trying to convince her she needed, for months now.  
He'd order one from Apple before she woke up, that way he could tell her he was on top of it, that it'd arrive in a few days, it would cheer her up when she woke.  
Until then, a few days without her phone might do her some good, force her to get more rest.

Paula was going to pick up Johnny, she had Chris so that would calm Johnny down over the change, and Paula was practically family. He'd called the school, so Mrs Demi could tell him ahead of time. Hopefully he wouldn't have a full-on screaming melt down. They'd be back at Paula's place within the hour and Michele and Johnny could have their phone call.

…ooo0ooo…

"…And yet, due to my cunning, here you sit, a virtual slave to my will." Crowley gloated down at his chained blonde prisoner. He'd been ranting for a few minutes, had come here to make himself feel better.

But was beginning to wonder if maybe, injecting soiled prophet blood into his veins hadn't been a good idea….  
He felt on edge and frustrated, couldn't work out if he just needed _m o r e,_ or if the human feelings were curdling inside of him. Making him feel this, this, disgusting way.

He was beginning to see that talking at _**him**_ **,** wasn't helping.  
The smug bastard just sat there, not giving him any of the satisfaction he'd been craving.

But he needed to follow through now.  
Save face.  
Or it would look like he was backing down.

Chained in his chair, his captive began rubbing at his chin as if considering Crowley's words, without noticing, Crowley did likewise.

"I mean the hubris – you and your pseudo son? I mean, it's delusional!" Crowley scoffed.

His captive cleared his throat, a beat later Crowley did the same, told himself he was taunting him. "Despite your epic collapse, you persist in the fantasy that you will best me." Smiling in derisive delight the other flapped his lips sarcastically and Crowley followed suit, still unaware.

"Your bluster is no match for my masterful strategies." Heedless Crowley continued the lecture, frustratedly trying to drag some form of enjoyment out of the interaction.

The blonde poked out his tongue, Crowley copied him.

"And in the end, you have to concede that I have…." his captive began flapping his elbows, like he was doing the chicken dance.

Crowley copied him like a child playing follow the leader.

Finally he realised what was happening.  
He wouldn't copy that!  
It was childish, puerile.  
Why had he done such a thing?!

"What's going on?" He demanded, startled and worried by his un-self-initiated actions.

His captive began laughing and stood.

" _Master strategist_." He was ridiculed in a parody of his own accent.

Crowley felt a flash of horror.

Something was _very_ wrong, he could feel it, he gazed at the hands of his meat suit in horror.

"More like Kermit the Frog." His captive began to hop on one foot.

Fighting it and rebelling internally, powerless to do anything but follow suit, Crowley copied.

Grinning broadly the new puppet master stopped hopping, but kept the demon jumping, with just the twitch of one finger.  
There was absolutely nothing Crowley could do but comply.

"Oh, my little Muppet!" His greatest nightmare rejoiced. "Crowley, what _will_ I do without you?" the former King of Hell's eyes widened in terror.

….

Unwillingly he unchained his erstwhile captive, then stood where he was put, externally impassive.  
Internally his mind scurried furiously, trying to work out how this ballsup had happened.  
How to survive.

Adapt or die!

In all his long years it wasn't the first time Crowley had had the tables turned on him, he'd been here before, multiple times.

He could do it again, he told himself.

True, it wouldn't be pleasant, but he could survive.

It was just a bump in the road.

The trick was to act as if you had planned it all along, to make yourself seem more useful alive than dead. To shepherd your strength and mark your openings.

"Ooh! Dad, that feels awesome." Crowley's captive turned captor… soon to become tormentor, crowed and stretched theatrically.

"Oh! Muscle cramps. Do you know a good Pilates class?" The nightmare wrapped in a blonde meat-suit questioned smiling coyly.

Crowley chuckled ingratiatingly.

"So, to be clear, I accept that you are now in charge. I-I like this new arrangement better." He smiled hopefully. "You're more the big picture guy. I'm the day-to-day minutiae guy."

He looked into the blue eyes of his new old master and suddenly a memory came crashing in.

" _Your end is coming Crowley. You have choices to make. Soon your sins will find you out. A time is coming when all your plans will fall to nothing; when you find yourself hiding with the rats. No matter how you play it YOU can't win the game you have begun, and the wages of sin are death."_

Sam's bloody pet prophet or the thing that drove her knew this was going to happen.

" _the wages of sin are death."_

Who was he kidding? There was only one way that this was ending!

" _the wages of sin are death."_

Crowley turned to run.

But he wasn't quick enough, he felt the unimaginable power he'd tried to chain, pick him up and slam him into the door. Knock it off its hinges.

He scrambled to his feet, only to be slammed through a second door and into the presence of his minions.

Of course, he would be debased and humiliated first.

"8 ball, corner pocket." Crowley's tormentor cried, hands on hips, voice all twisted childlike venom and good cheer; the kind of child that liked to pull wings off flies and smash things for fun.

Crowley was picked up and slammed against a pillar, hard enough to snap several bones and puncture a lung with a fragment of shattered rib.

"Well, I could do this all day, but since I'm King, et cetera, et cetera. I'll wrap it up." His voice went from playful to deadly like dropping a mask.

Crowley watched as his encroaching death picked up an angel blade that was just lying on the floor. Raising his hands, he levitated Crowley upright.

There was a bright flare of light. -Because _of course_ this was a moment of theatre for the masses.-

Crowley narrowed his eyes and winced at the show of power, the hated backlit silhouette of wings.

The whining sycophants would become back stabbing gossips soon enough. They'd all talk about his fall, his death and they'd laugh, like it was a great joke. They'd all suck up to the new king… until the bastard killed them. Crowley would laugh at the stupidity of demons, if he wasn't so busy trying not to whimper like a coward. All he had left was his dignity and he'd be damned – more damned, if he didn't die well.

He was lowered to his feet and forced, shaking fighting step, by shaking fighting step to approach his death, in front of every demon that had grovelled before him.  
Not a single one objected.  
He saw some openly gloating from the corner of his watering wide open eyes.

Finally, the angel blade rested against his chest pressing into the shards of his shattered collarbone.

The blade raised, forcing him to lift his head and look into those eyes.

"Well, you had to know this was inevitable." The once and returned ruler of Hell crooned, examining the demon minutely, all bated breath and wetted lips, like a lover.

It was almost like a caress when the blade sunk into his face and scored with agonising slowness down his cheek. The cut carved a portion of who he was away, burnt it to agonising cinders.

The blade traveled to his nose

"This is gonna hurt." He was informed as his nostril was slashed open.  
He was allowed to raise his hand to his face and cradle the pain for a moment before a fist slammed into him, sending him flying across the room.

It seemed to Crowley that the punch knocked something loose, his mind flooded with the paths the Prophets passenger had showed him.  
He died and died and died again, this moment was the end…. Except it wasn't. It didn't have to be, there was one golden thread of possibility.

He rolled his eyes sideways.

" _when you find yourself hiding with the rats."_

There it was. Sitting there waiting for him. Beady eyes staring straight at him.

" _Hiding with the rats."_

" _I'm not willing that any may perish, even you."_

The memory of the words was a whispered caress.

He took the hand, the offer he hadn't understood.

Let go and let himself slide away. Find a new home in the lowest place imaginable.

Watched as death stalked forward with the angel blade and plunged it into the unbeating already dead heart of the moderately successful literary agent out of New York.

…ooo0ooo…

In a hospital half a world away, Phillip Chadwick saw his wife's body shudder, her breathing stop, for a moment her eyes flashed open.

He swore he saw golden _light_ flare and spark inside her green eyes, before her eyelids fluttered closed again.

In horrified incomprehension Michele's husband watched his wife's precious blood poured out, again.

Then, alarms started blaring, the room filled with doctors and nurses and he was pushed away from the bed.


	97. Chapter 97: Bitter Awakenings

**Chapter 97: Bitter awakenings**

 **Chapter 97**

Sam jolts internally, reaching for the gun under his pillow, feeling disorientated.  
It's dark with only a sliver of light from the hallway filtering into his room.

There is something, someone, sitting on the end of his bed. Whoever or what ever it is, the silhouette doesn't match Dean.

He raises his gun in a smooth motion and sits up, the figure flinches back as he fumbles for the bedside lamp and turns it on.

Part of him is expecting something from a nightmare.

Instead, the light reveals Michele. Face shiny with tear tracks, looking at him with mournful green eyes.

Michele wipes at her eyes with the heels of her hands, as if she's been caught and is trying to hide the evidence she's been crying.

Her lips form his name and there's a touching look of wonder on her face.

"Michele? How..?" He asks letting the hand holding his gun fall bonelessly to the bed.

Michele frowns, head tilted, looking confused, her lips part and her mouth moves like she's saying his name again.  
But there's no sound.

She shifts towards him on the bed.

"How are you here?" He asks into the silence, vaguely aware that this shouldn't be happening.

Again, the woman looks confused, scrunching up her freckled nose and blinks at him, she shakes her head and touches her ear, then her lips.

She can't hear him.

Her mouth moves again, but he can't decipher her meaning.  
Instead he becomes arrested by the soft curve of her mouth, still shiny-wet with tears.  
The way her hair catches the golden lamplight…  
The frustrating way her bangs fall forward obscuring her eyes…

 _God!_ He wants to reach out and brush her hair away, so he can look into those eyes from close up.  
Wants to cradle her face in the palms of his hands.  
Weave his fingers into that tussled mane and feel the softness of those loose curls between his fingers.  
Wants to slide the pad of his thumb over the plush give of her bottom lip, see if those lips will part accommodatingly under his exploration…  
Wants to feel the warmth of her breath against his skin…

He swallows around a coil of nascent heat and flicks his gaze back to meet hers.

Maybe, some of what he wants shows on his face, her eyes widen, and she tilts her chin up, an unconsciously provocative gesture, but the way she leans away slightly, doesn't allow him to take it as an invitation.

Yeah, no, that's not... Michele's not… he feels embarrassment clog his throat.

Her lips form his name again, but this time there's less wonder and more command in her face.  
She looks faintly annoyed, like he's messing about when she wants him on task, it's the look she usually levels on Dean.  
Swiping her hair out of her face, she continues talking, a sense of urgency evident. She's unaware he can't hear her voice, just as she can't hear his. She's trying to tell him something, or asking him a series of questions.

Again, his focus slides away. Distracted by the contrast between her pale skin and those freckles, so much more noticeable than Dean's.  
Frowning he notices the shadow of a bruise across her temple, and a scrape by her hairline, realizes the left hand she's keeping tucked at her side, is enclosed in some sort of brace.

That she appears hurt again, irritates him deeply.  
He remembers her previous bruises and wonders if she lied to him, about her husband not hurting her.

Leaning forward, he's intent on grabbing her arm to examine it for himself, feels a possessive need to assess the damage.

Instead of his hand closing around her arm, it stops short, hitting something hard, it sends an unexpected jolt of impact through his hand.

…ooo0ooo...

There's a loud thump and Sam jerks awake.

He sits up realising he's fallen asleep at the library table, in the midst of research, trying to find a way to escape.

" _We're in a giant vault loaded down with occult books and lore.  
_ _There's gotta be something somewhere in here – an item or a spell –_ _some hoodoo that can reverse the lockdown."_ He'd suggested that over 24 hours ago, since then they've hit the books, hard.

Across the table Toni Bevell makes a contemptuous sound in the back of her throat, moving her foot so the handcuff around her ankle rattles against the wooden chair leg.

The weird mixed luminescence from the camping lantern in the middle of the table, and the bunkers red emergency lighting, makes reality seem like the dream- or a full force nightmare.

Dean lets out a loud hissing breath and glares at Toni, daring her to comment further.  
Dean mightn't be one to hurt women, but Sam knows his brother would love an excuse to get some licks in on this one, after her kicking him in the balls, and the other things she's done, to both of them.

Sam bends down and picks up the book he knocked to the floor. His hand's collision with it and the resultant thump must be what woke him. He climbs to his feet and stretches out his spine.

"How long was I out?" He questions guiltily.

"Not even long enough to start drooling, Sam." Dean mutters shortly, without looking up from the book he's trolling through, ('you have nothing to feel guilty about,' is layered flatly under the comment.) Dean turns another page.

Sam rubs at his bleary eyes, feeling off balance from the dream with Michele, then waking to find Toni Bevell only feet away.

 _I don't wanna die locked in here with Toni fucking Bevell!_ He tells himself.

Opening the book in his hands at random and begins reading.

It's one of the more fringe magical texts. Gypsies and the lore of the Romani people.

At another time it would have been interesting reading for its own sake, the mixture of orthodox Catholicism and Eastern mysticism blending together with even older beliefs to form a hybrid magical and religious system, calling upon the power of Heaven, eastern deities and shamanism, under the appellation of Devla.

From the page, the word Abrogation catches his eye, it's a law term, refers to repealing a law...

….

"Hey, I think I got something." Sam informed the others."When the Romani people were forced to assimilate in Europe, the, uh, the Romani used a spell, the Abrogation ritual, as an act of rebellion against their persecutors.…The Devla turns back complex mechanical processes, resets equipment, machinery." He read out excitedly.

"What's it take?" Dean asked.

"Seems like pretty basic ingredients. Nothing we don't already have…" Sam answered scanning the procedure.  
"…Oh…."

"What?" Toni demanded.

"The mechanisms 'must be anointed with the blood of virgins.'"

Dean looked at Toni, raising his eyebrow.

 _Yeah no_ , Sam thinks sarcastically.

Toni sits back and smirks at Dean. "Not even close." She informs his brother.

"All right, well, then, I guess we keep lookin'." Dean turns back to his book.

"…Or we fake it." Sam ventures.

"Excuse me?" Toni asks.

"We fake it." He repeats again "…I mean, I've read half a dozen purification rituals in the last hour. If we used one of those on – on our blood..."

"Then what? Re-virginize it?" Dean smiles.

"Maybe..."

Toni's lips curl up into a grudging smile. "So, we purify the blood, then do the spell? Two-step, hybrid magic."

"Bet _you_ wouldn'ta thought of that." Dean jibes at Toni with a smug taunting look.

"… Probably not." She admits like there's something sour in her mouth. Sam feels Toni looking at him again, like she's reassessing his worth, before she shrugs minutely. "Which purification ritual shall we use then?" She asks.

…

"Sam, you doing okay?"

Sam turned from collecting supplies for the purification and Abrogation rituals with a huff.

"Uh yeah, Dean… I mean, considering they brainwashed Mom, and we're locked in here waiting to suffocate, and uhh... Ketch is out there doing who knows what." The muscles along Sam's jaw jump. "Yeah I'm good." He answers snarkily.

Dean lets out a slow breath, yeah, attempting the sharing and caring thing, this is what he gets, doesn't know why he bothers.

He sets his shoulders, rubs the back of his neck, "Okay, I'm just gonna say it before we're back with her Ladyship, we screwed up Sam. Bet that Skype call…"

Sam jerks like he's touched a live wire, glares at Dean, bottom lip poking out like it used to when he was a kid, then his shoulders slump. "God! I hope Michele doesn't know about this, Dean.  
You recon the men of letters know about her?  
T-Toni sure didn't hold back on threatening Jody and Claire, maybe…"

"I dunno Sam, if they've been listening in they gotta know…" _what Mitch means to you,_ Dean finishes silently in his own head, there is the hope that the British Men of Letters know _about_ Mitch, but not who, or where she is.  
"Claire and Jody are American hunters Sammy. Seems they're mainly focused on clearing the decks of us sentimental, flannel wearing, whiskey swilling plebs an' replacin' us with pompous assholes like Ketch."

Ketch has done a bang-up job of locking them in here like rats in a trap, no phone, no internet… Soon no food, water or air. Either angel radio is blocked, or Cas is ignoring their prayers, thinking they are just trying to lure him, so they can grab Kelly and suck the grace out of her freaky kid.

Dean prefers to think it's just that angel radio sucks, after all Cas couldn't hear or find them in West Guantanamo either.

"Not gonna happen." Sam huffs looking decisive, arms full of bottles and jars, "com'on Dean, better not leave Toni alone too long."

"Yeah, lets go kick it in the ass."

…

"Fármichi, fármichi, mashuna parra, mashuna parra." Toni chants the ending to the Abrogation ritual as she sprinkles in a handful of crushed Clamshell.

A deep rumbling like an earthquake surrounds them and everything starts to shake. Electricity crackles, everything electrical makes a high pitched laboured humming, the lights flicker back to normal, from the emergency red. Pulsing on and off with the fluctuating sounds of mechanical labour.

"It's working. It's working!" Sam rejoices and shoots Dean a smile.

Then the lights go dead and everything stops, the bunkers lighting flickers back to red again.

"No. No." Toni gasps in despair, cuffed hands clenched.

"What happened?"

"Ketch!" She spits "He knew we'd..." She lets out a sharp exhale. "He must've put some kind of mystical dampener on the bunker's lockdown." Her shoulders slump.

"Magic won't work." She informs them quietly in defeat.

Both Winchester bothers bury their heads in their hands.

Time is running out.

…ooo0ooo…

The past two days have been an agony.

When Michele awoke, Phillip was still sitting beside her hospital bed looking drawn and grey.  
He informed her tonelessly of what the doctor had asked him and implied.

She'd been woozy with the drugs, stunned by the visions and the strange distorted dream, completely at a loss.

What could she say?

 _No, it wasn't an attempt at suicide, I just panicked because I had a vision of the future.  
I rushed across the road, got hit by a car by accident, because I was focused on getting the King of Hell's business card out of the ashtray in the car.  
I just wanted to save my friends, the characters out of the Supernatural books you got me reading. You know my fanfiction friends? Yeah, they're actually Sam and Dean Winchester, they hunt monsters.  
An evil British organisation has locked them in an underground bunker and they're suffocating as we speak.  
Where? Ummm I never asked, and they never told me, it's a top secret lair … besides, you know me and directions, it's a problem.  
The King of Hell is the only person I can think of who knows where the bunker is. But I think he might be dead now.  
He's a blood junkie and shot up with some of my blood, he stole, somehow that let the monster he had chained in the basement turn him into a puppet.  
But on a positive note if the King of Hell is dead, I can quit worrying about him abducting our son and gifting him to a pedophile. _

If she had said _**any**_ of that, it would make the, yeah, I'm not nuts argument seem a bit weak.

Phil would have thought she was delusional, ill and in need of professional help. Then he and the doctors would have tried to make her better, tried to fix her for her own good.

She remembers glaring at her husband resentfully in that moment.  
Wanting to scream at him, "You don't understand! Someone I care about is dying. And I can't stop it! All I can do is sit and watch it happen."

And then she had realised…

Phillip knew _**exactly**_ what that felt like.

He was watching her die by inches, with every nosebleed.

He was _just_ as helpless as she was.

What were Sam and Dean to her really in comparison?

She was Phillip's wife, his closest friend, the mother of his children, the person who he'd always trusted most to have his back and face the world with him.

Stung by regret at not having _seen,_ she reached out to the man she loved, who loved her, and lost herself in bitter tears.


	98. Chapter 98: Thinking about You

**Chapter 98: Thinking about You**

 **Chapter 98**

Phillip returned from carrying the last sleeping boy to his own bed and feeding the cat.

"Alone at last," he rejoiced and shut their bedroom door, firmly.

Johnny, Chris and the cat had been plastered to her ever since she'd returned home that morning.

Michele jerked her eyes away from staring at the Skype app on her new phone, and tried to stop obsessing and worrying about Sam and Dean. Tried to stop imagining the worst.

Surely a good God wouldn't let them die?!

How many times had they both died and come back from the dead? They would be fine, wouldn't they?! Please God, I don't know what to do, why did this happen?!

The slimey horrible question that nagged and scratched inside her head was, would they die?… and… if they did die would she be free of the curse that was slowly killing her? If the Winchesters ended, would their gospel end?

Repressing a whimper of guilt and angst, Michele closed her eyes again, and tried to force herself to just exsist in the moment.

To watch her husband as he stripped off his clothes and dumped them on the floor.

To think of nothing else.

Of course, Phillip took her scrutiny as proof of his stunning sexual magnetism, and decided to turn the process into a weirdly corregraphed striptease.

Now, down to just his boxers and socks, he fluttered his eyelashes at her, coyly over his shoulder and waggled his boxer clad butt. "Bet you missed having all this manly goodness in bed with you." He suggested smugly.

For a moment the gnawing helpless feeling left her gut, and she laughed.

Phil was such a class-clown!

He smiled back smugly, then crawled up the bed towards her and kissed her soundly.

As she tried to return and deepen the kiss, however, he scrambled away from her across the bed and climbing under the blankets, pulling them up round his neck like a maiden aunt frightened for her virtue.

"No!" He admonished teasingly, waving a finger, "doctor's orders are, that you rest! None of that, Mrs Chadwick. I've been waiting three whole days to _continue watching 12 Monkeys_. Tonight Netflix and chill, means _just_ that!"

Then he made a lie of it all, by tugging her across the bed into his arms, settling her onto his naked chest.

He wriggled around until her cheek was resting above his heart with his nipple directly under her lips. Then he grabbed her hand not in a cast and dragged it down to cup over his hipbone.

Michele couldn't help smiling, Phil was such a brat at times, she knew exactly what he was doing, and he thought he was being _so_ sly.

The whole thing was a setup. If she flexed the fingers of her good hand, they'd brush those warm curls between his legs (and when had he shed his boxers anyway?)

Her every breath brushed over that small nub of flesh below her lips.

Temptation.

The way he'd positioned her was a carefully coreographed setup, it screamed, "love me, touch me, taste me."

Turning her head she rested her chin on his chest and looked up at her husband's carefully impassive face.

His eyes were closed as if he was considering sleeping, but she could feel him, just waiting.

"Because you know that the best way to get me to say Yes, is to tell me No." She suggested with a raised brow.

The corners of his mouth pulled in a tiny bit, and his bottom lip bowed in a minute pout.

"Maybe…" he admitted voice shaded towards little boy, and those thick inky lashes he'd bestowed on one daughter and both sons fluttered open to look up at her in the lamp light, hazel eyes wolffish.

Reaching out the hand encased in the and ran a finger along his cheek bone, watched those lashes flutter closed again and the way he lifted his chin and pressed into her touch, just ever so slightly.

Such a hedonist, she thought fondly, always wanting to be petted like some giant cat. She'd always loved the way he gloried in her touch like this. She ran her fingers over the the lines on his brow and smile lines beside his eyes, time was just beginning to carve them into permenant marks after all these years.

Those wrinkles beside his eyes were the marks of a good man, one with a good heart and a slightly over-sexed sense of humor, she thought.

…Dean had those lines too.

And suddenly, just like that, she was crying again, and Phillip was holding her tight telling her over and over, that it was going to be all right, that they were going to survive this. Which only made her cry harder.

…oooOooo…

Sam watched his brother unroll the blueprint and slap it down onto the table.

"Okay, we've... exhausted brains, so I say we try brawn."

"How?" Sam asked, resolutely trying to gather the internal resources to follow his brother's lead.

"Walls." Dean answered implacably, ignoring the small groan from Toni Bevell's direction. "Now the garage, the Crow's Nest, these, are all reinforced steel walls, right?"

Sam frowned and nodded.

"But right here," Dean tapped the blue prints, "that's nothing but concrete...And right there," he rested one blunt finger on a circle on the blueprint, "that's an old sewer pipe, goes straight up to the surface...to the override."

Sam raised a brow in surprise, "So wait a second. We're just gonna..."

"Straight Shawshank this bitch." Dean crowed confidently.

…..

As he followed Dean down the stairs, carrying a pick over his shoulder, Sam began to feel the first flickers of doubt, just walking down the stairs seemed to take far more effort than it should.

Vaguely he remembered one of Michele's lectures about blood, oxygen and exercise, he was pretty sure this feeling was what she'd been talking about, when your muscles just weren't getting enough oxygen.

Without realising he was doing it, Sam found himself humming.

Dean stopped, looked back over his shoulder and shook his head.

"That's one of Mitch's songs isn't it? Guess it's appropriate.

 _'When I run out of air to breathe._

 _It's your ghost I see,_

 _I'll be thinking about you.'_ "

Sam caught back a breath. Dean was right, it was.

The one she'd been dancing round the kitchen, singing into a spatula, to that time.

He'd found the album after and Dean had caught him listening to it. Surprisingly, Dean hadn't hated it. He'd even heard Dean playing a few of the songs, "Wolves," especially, on days when he was feeling low.

Sam sort of hated that song.

The song he'd been humming was called "Skin." Dean was right, there was a line about running out of air to breath… there were lots of lines in that song that were fitting…

 _We bleed ourselves in vain,_ _How tragic is this game?_

 _I reached out for your hand,_ _When the walls were caving in…_

… _'Cause it was almost love…_

Sam shook his head, annoyed with himself. Hitting a concrete wall with a pick was _exactly_ what he needed right now.

…..

After a trip back to the lab for goggles, Sam and Dean attacked the concrete wall from each side, trading alternate strikes at the concrete wall.

Sparks and chips of concrete flew in all directions.

Each strike sent a jarring pain into the muscles of Sam's shoulder and chest. Sweat and concrete dust plastered his shirt to his skin, dripped into his eyes and ran down his face like tears, behind his antiquated safety googles.

After what felt like forever of hammering, they barely made a dent in the concrete, each successive strike got further apart and less efficient.

Finally, Sam let his pick fall from his hands to the floor, panting he slid down the wall. Dean gave one last half hearted swing that didn't even connect then joined him with a grunt.

"Oh, Yeah." Dean groaned.

Both of them just panted like dogs for a moment.

Sam ran a hand through his disgusting hair and groaned.

"We earned a break." Dean muttered.

"Yeah." Sam closed his eyes and let his head fall back.

"We'll get there." Dean extolled, reached out for the bottle by his side, realised it was empty and tossed it aside with a grunt of disgust.

Sam twisted around to look up at the wall they'd been hammering and caught Dean doing the same from the corner of his eye.

Gritted his teeth at how unimpressive the dent they'd managed thus far was.

"No. No, no, we won't." He sighed. "We're not gonna hit dirt for three days. Two if we're lucky." Sam chewed his lip.

"I know you feel it – the air, it's thin." He inhaled deeply through this nose, to get his point across. "…And it's getting thinner...

How did this happen?" He asked mournfully, sucking another breath. _God he wished he'd answered that Skype call!_

"What part?" Dean asked quietly, shoulders slumped, avoiding his eyes.

"All of it." Because not answering that Skype call wasn't the only thing that had led them here. Working with the British Men of Letters, trusting them had led them here.

Dean shook his head dejectedly. "Yeah…" He sighed, "You know, it wasn't long ago, I thought we had it made.

We saved the world.

We got Cas back.

We had _Mom_ back…" Dean glanced at his face then looked away swiftly. "I mean, it wasn't perfect, but still... we had 'em…

And now..."

"Now they're all gone." From the corner of his eye he watched Dean shake his head and swallow painfully.

"And Mom, what they did to her..." Sam shook his head in horror, remembering the blank look on his mother's face, huffed in self deprecation, "I just fell for their company line." He swallowed hard.

"Man, I..." He sucked another breath, exhaled it painfully.

"I saw what they were doing, and I – and I _thought_ ,

Hunters o-on that scale, working together... how much good we can do." _God! He'd been so wrong, so damn stupid, he should have listened to Michele about the werewolf vaccine. Always, should have listened, why hadn't he listened._

"And once I was in, I... I just followed. 'Cause it was easy- Easier." He corrected himself.

Dean glanced at him. "Easier than what?" He asked.

An epiphany struck him then. How much he hated making those decisions, how badly he wanted to hand the responsibly over to someone, anyone else. Was that what Michele had meant by telling him he'd always been the kid in the equation.

"Easier than leading." He admitted.

Dean nodded in understanding and dropped his head. After Dad died… even before, Dean had never had the luxuary of someone else being responsible.

Knowing that filled Sam with shame. He picked up a piece of concrete to distract himself, stared at it and tossed it aside. Leaned back against the wall.

"Is this how you pictured it?" He asked finally. "The end?"

Dean lifted his chin and stared away. "Ohh, you know it's not!

…I always thought we'd go out like... Butch and Sundance style."

Sam shook his head and coughed a laugh. Dean and his stupid cowboy and action movies.

"Yeah.

Blaze of glory."

"Blaze of glory." Dean agreed from by his side.

From the corner of his eye Sam saw his brother look aside and smile nostalgically.

Then a small shiver ran through him. "Sonofabitch." Dean breathed and nodded to himself. "Hmm." He hummed in something like satisfaction.

"What?"

"I know how we're gonna get outta here. And I'm such a frickin' idiot for not thinkin' of it before."

"What?!"

Dean climbed to his feet. "Home improvement Sammy, DIY… What we need is a major dose of destructive overkill! When-the- _fucking_ -walls-came-down!"

Sam scrambled to his feet to follow after his brother… "Seriously Dean, slow down. I'm not getting you man."

Dean swung around to face him almost giddily, grinning like a maniac. "Mitch! That day, the day we told her about being a soiled prophet… she was talkin' about her husband wantin' to take out a wall… and she said…"

"…if her husband had a granade launcher like we do, she'd be afraid to leave him unsupervised..." Sam finished in an incredulous rush, feeling an insane smile spill across his face in reply to his brother's.


	99. Chapter 99: When the Walls Came Down

**Chapter 99: When the Walls Came Down**

 **Chapter 99**

Castiel looked across his truck at the woman seated in the passenger seat and smiled bittersweet to himself.

Kelly Kline looked worlds different from the woman he'd found chained in Dagon's basement, the one that had grabbed his hand in the park and stood by his side against Dagon.

Her clothes were new, her hair clean and shiny, but most telling of all was her smile.

Despite knowing her child's birth would bring about her death, Kelly was relaxed, happy, filled with a brimming purpose and hope.

In the early afternoon light, slanting through the old fords passenger window Kelly was luminous with life.

Kelly looked up from examining the contents of the plain plastic shopping bag in her lap and caught his smile.

"What?" She asked self consciously, tucking her straight dark-blonde hair behind one ear, and raising a neat brow.

The angel took a flustered breath, nonplused over how to answer her. "I have read and heard the description of a pregnant woman glowing, I did not understand the imagery, believed it to be a tactful way of describing increased blood flow and perspiration. But… I understand now. You do, as they say, glow, not with photons but …you are radiant..." Castiel faded off, uncertainly, looking ahead at the road in feigned concentration.

Kelly smiled and patted his knee- that was another surprising thing about becoming Kelly's protector, all these little touches. Very different from his interactions with Sam and Dean.

"I'm going to take that as a complement Castiel. In your way, you're very sweet." She smiled across at him head tilted slightly.

"I did collect honey for a time, but that was many years ago." Kelly's pale green eyes narrowed slightly, her glossed lips quirked up like he'd said something amusing. "-Oh you mean…" he cleared his throat awkwardly, chagrined that he'd failed to read the subtleties of human communications, once more.

"Yes Cas," Kelly murmured and patted his knee lightly.

"….. I have not had occasion to spend much time with women… especially pregnant women. I am uncertain if the effect is due to the child…"

"Jack." Kelly stated firmly, "my son's name is Jack."

"Oh…" Castiel found himself a little surprised by Kelly's choice. It was not what he expected… and yet, since the day in the park - since he chose this mission to protect Kelly and her child, Castiel had begun to believe that his Father might still care for his creations. Despite the way he had left, and chose to remain hidden from them. That moment when the child's power filled him… he almost felt his Father's presence.

"It was my grandfather's name. A family name." Kelly answered defiantly. "I know it isn't grand … or… But, it's the name of a _boy_ , someone with the choice of who he will become. Someone who can choose to be good."

"Kelly, do you…? Jack, the name, it means 'God is Gracious.'" Castiel was uncertain if Kelly had known the meaning of the name before he told her, but from the way her smile widened, it was apparent, her mind would not be changed by the knowledge.

"Kelly, I believe...the name, Jack… It is perfect." He assured her, swallowing back sadness at the thought of this woman's death. "I will tell your son how you chose his name and why. What it means. He will carry it proudly." He vowed.

…ooo0ooo…

"I guess I better go get Toni, and explain what we are gonna do." Sam said.

"Yeah I'll go..." Dean pointed in the direction of the garage and his brother nodded.

Dean could feel how the air was thinning, but made his way to the garage with a measure of lightness.

At least this felt like doing something, a plan. He didn't know if Sam was aware of the risks.

Sure he did, Sam was smart.

He hadn't argued, though. Dean found himself wondering if Sam just wanted to indulge him this one last time. Give him that Blaze of Glory. An action movie moment, before their credits rolled. Or did Sam believe in this reckless get out of jail card?

Reaching the garage, Dean lifted the battery lantern higher, letting it's light spill over the Impala, for what he fervently hoped was not the last time.

He looked lingeringly over his number one girl's liquid ink and chrome lines. Then smoothed one hand over her cool, glossy paintwork.

"This has gotta work." He muttered darkly and patted the Impala's roof.

The thought of her, crushed under rubble or sitting there in the airless dark. Forever.- Never again, flying down asphalt where she belonged, or kicking up fallen leaves and road dust.

Engine stilled forever…

Dean grimaced and shook his head in denial.

Opened the trunk.

As he lifted the grenade launcher out and checked it's ammo, thought briefly of Montauk.

Something yellow lying underneath where the grenade launcher had been and caught his eye.

It was a post-it note. The word 'NO!' scrawled across it.

Drawing a rough breath the hunter picked it up and smoothed his thumb over the two letters and exclamation mark.

Mitch was good at saying no, somehow she always had a way of making you realise, you didn't want what you thought you did.

He swallowed roughly, grenade launcher in one hand, small yellow post-it in the other. Looked over his shoulder nervously.

"...Mitch, dunno if this time it's meantta be a 'Yes.'" He muttered, alone in the shadowed garage. "Dunno if you can hear me… or how your thing works. But... if you can… Just... wantedta say thanks, an' sorry… Guess, least if this don't work out… I'm hopin' you'll be free, quit bleedin.' That you'll forget about us, live a good life, look after those kids of yours…" The Hunter stopped and cleared his throat, glanced at the word NO! again, hoped it wasn't some sort of sign, that he was about to get them all killed. Shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Yeah, talkin to m'self. Stupid…" he muttered, crumpling the post-it in his hand and shoving it into his pants pocket.

Slammed the trunk.

...ooo0ooo…

"You're lunatics." Toni hissed at Sam. "This is a _colossally stupid_ idea." Her highness, Toni Bevell scolded, as if Sam were a kid, as if they weren't all running out of air, out of less stupid options.

"Yep." Dean agreed, grinning broadly as he strode into the room. "Big, beautiful.." He cocked the grenade launcher, "and dumb…

I've had this thing for soo long." Sam looked up at him and grinned, crossed his arms and tilted his head cockily in agreement, being a little shit without saying a word.

"Been waiting for the perfect moment to use it." He smiled again and Sam met his eyes.

Yeah, Butch and Sundance in Bolivia.

"The explosion could kill us all.

You could bring the whole bloody place crashing down!" Toni vented in horror.

Dean couldn't help laughing at the woman's panic, it was just gravy, her pompous English whining, music to his ears.

"Yeah." He grinned wider.

"Yeah." Sam agreed with a nod and a chuckle.

"You're _lunatics_!" Toni shrilled as Sam grabbed her arm and led her unwillingly up the stairs. "Action movie-loving, cheeseburger-eating, moronic _American_ lunatics!"

Sticks an' stones lady, Dean thought as Sam ushered her out of the room and into the hallway behind.

He raised the grenade launcher. "Okay, beautiful." He muttered sighting on the pathetic dent he and Sam had made, hammering at the wall.

"Yippee ki-yay, mother –"

Dean pulled the trigger. And the world exploded in a giant fire ball.

Slammed backwards. Showered with debris.

Dazed.

Pummelled all over.

Ears ringing.

Dean forced himself to stumble to his feet and down the stairs. The hole wasn't huge but it _had_ reached the sewer pipe. Busted it open like a high caliber bullet, ripping through a tin can.

He clambered up inside the crater, kicking lumps of concrete and twisted metal out of his way best he could.

Poked his head up into the pipe and took a gasp of fetid but marginally fresher air.

Squeezed himself inside and began forcing his way up, worming his way into the twisted metal pipe.

Kicking and struggling.

At one point he caught his leg on something, he felt a spike of searing pain in his knee as he yanked himself forward again. Then he felt something shift. Felt a grinding rumble through the walls of the pipe.

Collapsing concrete and earth.

All the light from behind him cut off, left him in the close darkness.

A wave of panic swept through the Hunter.

Dean panted hoarsely and tears of panic leaked from his eyes.

What if he was trapped in here, like a rat in a bottle? What if the bunker had collapsed behind him and he'd left Sammy to die?

" _Don't you dare sit there and cry. Want to live, want to save you brother._ _ **Then do your damn job!**_ _"_ An echo of John Winchester's voice whipped him, pushing him on.

….

Crouched in the hallway next to Toni Bevell, with his hands over his ears, Sam heard the explosion. Felt it, like a blow to the chest, when the explosion devoured most of the little oxygen left in the Bunker.

"Dean?"

"Dean!"

He got to his feet and staggered along the corridor to find his brother.

The room was empty.

There _was_ a hole in the wall, but it was only a couple of feet wide. Sam approached it, torch in hand, to peer closer coughing and wheezing at the smoke and dust.

Then something above groaned and the wall above collapsed in on itself, blocking access.

Surely Dean hadn't been in there… the collapse, he'd have been crushed.

Dean had to be in the bunker. Maybe he'd been hurt in the explosion. Was trying to patch himself up. Sam staggered away from the collapsed hole, vision greying with lack of oxygen, stumbling and choking, he forced himself on, he just had to find his brother if this was the end.

"Dean?!" He called into the darkened maze of the Bunker's hallways.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele picked up her chiming phone and stared dumbly at the name on the display.

"Hello?" She asked fearfully, heart beating like a drum, too shattered by everything she'd witnessed in the past 24 hours to really hope.

"Hey…" Sam's voice responded hesitantly in her ear.

"Sammm?

Oh God! I thought… I thought you were dea-d." Her voice broke pathetically as tears blurred her vision. "P-please tell me Dean's okay, _**please**_ …" she begged and burst into a series of hiccuping sobs.

On the other end of the phone Sam drew a halting breath, her fear skyrocketed.

"Yeah," he muttered, after a pause that felt like forever. "D-Dean's still kicking, just skinned his knee up. But he's… he'll be fine. W-we're both fine."

"Sorry…" She murmured brokenly trying to get herself under control.

"Yeah ahhh, sorry for worrying you. I wanted to protect you from that…"

"Sorry for worrying me…" she repeated dumbly. " _Worrying me_? You wanted to protect _me_ from that…?" And suddenly something snapped inside of her. "Sam you want to apologise? How about you apologise for not picking up my fucking call… How about you apologise for the fact I have no idea where your bloody Bunker is. _I couldn't even call the damn Kansas police and try and convince_ _ **them**_ _to save you._ Apologise that I don't know the name or contact details for a _single person_ who _could_ save you. Apologise because you prioritise your stupid, pointless, Neanderthal, screwed up, John Winchester idea of protecting the civilian, over listening. Over _me_ doing _my_ job! Protecting you with what I see!"

"Michele… it's not you job too…"

"You know nothing Jon Snow." She spat before he could argue further. "I _made it_ my job. _God_ made it my job. So quit treating me like I'm a child."

"I'm sorr-"

"Don't be _Sorry_ Sam, change! If we _are_ actually friends, act like it! Trust me! Listen to me, stop thinking you know better and stop treating me like your Dad treated you all those years. Maybe I can't shoot a gun or kill a monster. But let me do my job, _please Sam_."

"Wow, I ...uh…" Sam huffed a mirthless chuckle against her ear "you know you never gave me your address either…" he murmured dryly, trying to either defend himself or break the tension.

"That's because my address is in the _phonebook_ , Sam… also cos I _know_ you cyber stalked me."

She sighed wearily. "Sam I'm _glad_ you and Dean are alive, so _very_ glad! – you have no idea. Sorry for freaking out and yelling at you."

"You care… I uh, get that… but Michele, this is what happens, what we do… who we are… this life…" Sam sounded so reasonable, despite being obviously wrung-out and frustrated, it made her feel more guilty for losing it. "I don't want to drag you into this, I'd do anything to stop you seeing... For your sake. But what we do _is_ dangerous and bloody, and you… you're…"

"I'm a soiled Prophet Sam," she argued, "there's demon blood in me too! - Has been since _before_ you were born. You- bless your heart Sam, you, don't want to see that, that this is my fight too. I know you wouldn't be who you are if you didn't do what you do, I'd never ask you to stop or not be who you are. I'm just asking, _begging_ , that you let me do and be what I'm _supposed_ to too, okay?

Sam please, let me do my job. Let me try to protect you, in the pathetic small way I can… Ever think that _maybe_ when Amara gave Dean a gift… Chuck gave you one to?" Michele blinked, unsure where her last words came from. "Ever stop to think that maybe I'm here to watch your back? Because God cares, because he wants to keep you two brave, self sacrificing, Blaze of Glory, moronic, American lunatics alive?"

Sam snorted. "Heard that did you?"

"Yeah I did, and Dean can't blame me for the hole in your wall, that was all him. Where is he? I know whatever he did to his leg was pretty bad, _and_ in an old sewer pipe. Last thing he needs is Lockjaw or a dose of septicaemia. When was his last tetanus jab?"

Sam hummed in the back of his throat, seemingly amused by her usual mothering attempt. "Dean's busy with Toni. And I don't care what you say, that's one part of our life you are having _Nothing_ to do with, understand? I, I hear you… and yeah, okay next time I'll pick up the phone. O-or call you back… But you have to understand Michele, The British Men of Letters they're not like you, or even us. I didn't see it until too late, but they're bad, a type of bad you've never dealt with, and I don't want you to. They _killed_ Mick, they _brainwashed_ Mom… people like that… they find you and…

I just _**can't**_ , okay?!

I'm _not_ going to apologise for that." Sam informed her, voice stubborn and inflexible. "We're both up to date on our shots, sorta have to be, don't worry about that. Promise I'll keep an eye on Deans leg. I-I've got to go now, phones dying. Mom turned up at Jody's, we're headed there now, just stopped for gas. I'll talk with Jody about giving you her contact details, give her GPS coordinates, something… we'll work it out… Hey, Michele ...I-" The call failed mid sentence.

…..

Sam walked back around the side of the gas station. Dean was filling the Impala's tank and Toni was back inside.

Dean looked up and nodded, pulled a face and grunted when he got closer. "So- lookin' at your face, Cassandra ripped you a new one?"

"Dean, d-don't call her that. She'll only use it as ammo." He muttered ruefully, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Dean just laughed.

Sam huffed and rolled his eyes in response .

"She says you can't blame her for the hole in the wall. Wanted to know if all your shots are up to date, she's worried you're gonna get Tetanus from that knee. Didn't tell her Lockjaw might be an improvement."


	100. Chapter 100:Promise not to murder my cat

**Chapter 100: Promise not to murder my cat**

 **Chapter 100**

Crowley, demon of unspecified position, with relation to Hell, caught himself against the flank of the Japanese, tin-can, people-mover and took a breath as he surveyed the uninspiring dwelling before him.

That he'd come to _this_ irked him. He straightened his spine and made his way up the house's front steps.

….

Hearing a knock at the front door, Michele put down the potato peeler she was wielding against the pile of root vegetables. Wiped her hands on a dish towel, lifted her toddler down to the floor from his stool beside her and headed to answer the door.

The toddler trailed behind her.

Seeing the mother and child leave the kitchen, the cat on the dining room windowsill stood, stretched languorously, and decided to investigate the visitor also.

Trailed by her entourage, Michele opened the door.

….

"Ma cherie." Crowley greeted the woman cockily, a smug smile positioned for best effect.

"Crowley… I thought you were dead." The woman gasped, face a picture of shock.

"Rumours of my death are somewhat exagger-"

Behind her something appeared that made him stumble back a step in shock, a visceral reaction in his weakened state. He would have done a pratfall onto his arse, but for the good Samaritan who stepped heedlessly outside her protective warding to catch him.

The woman tucked herself under his arm and led him down the front steps to a garden bench seat.

"Sit," she commanded, "I'll be right back."

A minute later she returned with a glass in one hand and a blue and white plastic box under her arm.

"Drink," the woman commanded placing the glass in his hands, "It's Bourbon, not scotch, but it's what we have…"

The demon looked down at the glass in his hands.

"Drink." She commanded again, placing a hand underneath and lifted it to his lips like he was an invalid.  
Off guard, he swallowed a few mouthfuls compliantly, before coming to his senses.

"What the bleeding hell are you doing woman?" He demanded, unaccountably irritated by the way she had abandoned the safety of her warding and appeared to be…  
"Ow!" He flared in betrayal, trying to slap her hand away as she dabbed at the cut on his meat-suit's cheek with a square of gauze soaked in some god-awful smelling disinfectant.

It stung.

"You're hurt and you're filthy, what do you think I'm doing? Stop being a baby and let me clean it." She snapped.

Baffled by the unexpected solicitude, the demon sat under the woman's ministrations sipping at his (not horrible) bourbon, until she reached up and began trying to undo his tie.  
He grabbed her hands, "What _are_ you doing?" He grated suspiciously, somewhat distracted by the cast around her wrist

"… why are you wearing that?"

"I'm trying to assess if I need to take you to a hospital." She muttered, and tried to attack his tie again.

He grabbed her cast encased wrist, stopping her hands.

"As much as this little medical game of S&M thrills me to the core, I can assure you, your Florence Nightingale impersonation is unnecessary."

"You all but fell down my front steps, you're hurt, and filthy... I don't even know _how_ you're alive. I saw him _stab_ you in the chest with that angel blade…"

"Spying again Poppet? All a bit of slight of hand, as you can see. I'm very much - not dead. All the damage – except to the Armani, is unimportant."

"Yeah, sure, because Crowley, King of Hell, usually knocks on doors then falls down peoples front steps."

"I was surprised, that's all." He argued, ruffled. "I simply forgot you had one of _those_." He waved at the feline now sitting on the top step, staring menacingly at him, and shuddered.

"Slinky?"

"Yes, the sodding cat!" He spat, "-merely an instinctive survival reaction."

The little hobbit housewife gave him a surprised look and frowned, "so wait, demons are scared of cats?… like, like Minecraft creepers? Is that why witches are associated with th-"

"No! You little dingbat, I just spent three days hiding in a rat."

"Oh…" The prophet frowned and blinked green eyes at him.

As if mentioning it's name called it closer, the blasted feline stalked down the steps towards them, stiff legged, tail and body fluffed out to twice its size. It sniffing the air, then began yowling and growling at him.  
Crowley tensed, curled his lip and narrowed his eyes in annoyance.  
He'd never liked cats.  
Beside him Sam's pet looked back and forth between him and the cat, then shot to her feet, picked up the infernal moggy and threw a "I'll be back," over her shoulder as she disappeared inside the house, shutting the door.

Minutes ticked by before the door opened again.

"Okay, I think I've got rid of the warding in the lounge, kitchen and bathroom… Slinky's locked in the hallway… so ummm. You can come in if you promise not to murder my cat, or whatever…"

He just stared as the hobbit skipped down her front steps again and proceeded to try and help him to his feet.

He shook her off, stood by himself, and looked down at her in disgust.

" _ **What is wrong with you**_?!" He demanded angrily, "I'm a demon, _de-mon_. And you're just… just going to let me in your house?!"

The woman pouted at him, lifting her chin and gave him that wide eyed look. "You're hurt…"

"So?!"

"…so, I can't just…"

"So, you slam the door in my Bloody face, you little idiot! You try to kill me… Or, or use it to your advantage…you don't just…"

The woman sighed heavily, "You came here because you knew, or hoped, I'd do exactly what I'm doing Crowley. Now I've got stuff to do. When you're finished sulking, having a tantrum, a crisis of conscience or what ever this is, come inside."

She turned around and walked back into the house leaving the front door standing open.  
After a moments hesitation the demon followed her through the lounge and into the kitchen, stood watching her peel vegetables with his arms crossed.

"I don't have a conscience," he informed her sulkily and banged the empty bourbon glass onto the bench.

The woman peeked up at him from under lowered lashes.

"If you want...There's some clean clothes that should fit and a towel, in the bathroom." She gesturing at a doorway just beyond the kitchen.

….

When the ousted King of Hell emerged from the bathroom, clean and dressed in the black t-shirt, athletic pants and socks he'd found in the bathroom, the prophet was no longer in the kitchen.

He found her seated at the computer, typing away, the toddler on her lap was watching cartoon dogs on it's iPad.  
The child looked up from the iPad. "Gar ace awww." It piped amicably, gazing up with curious hazel eyes.

The mother didn't react, simply continued typing.  
Stepping closer the demon began reading over her shoulder.

….

"I'm not a blood junkie!" Crowley flared, insulted, "and if I am, it's your fault! I was clean before you!"

At his outburst, the woman flinched in shock, turning her head to look at him owlishly.

" _That's_ what you're getting from this chapter?" She asked.

"That and Moose and Squirrel are once again in need of having their chestnuts hauled out of the fire. _Imagine my surprise_." He muttered sarcastically, looking put-upon.

The demon fidgeted with his clothing and scowled. "How fortuitous, that I bartered for that warding and formulated a work around..." The demon smirked self importantly. "At least, now I know why you're truckling to me. You're going to beg me to save them."

The woman scrunched up her freckled nose, "Don't you think I would have said something _before_ _now_?! No Crowley. Dean blew a hole in the wall with his grenade launcher, they're…" She looked aside and one corner of her mouth twitched downward, "...Fine." She didn't look entirely convinced.

Saving her document, she turned and looked up at him. "Well, at least you're looking a bit better," she observed.

He grunted in reply, fingering the black polyester-cotton clothing scathingly. The last time he'd worn something similar, Lucifer had him chained in a kennel.

"Why then? what do you want?" He demanded.

She tilted her head and looked puzzled by the question, then bit her lip, "If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink. In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head." Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. Romans 12: 19 to 21." She finished the quote with an arch smile. "Will you be staying for dinner Crowley?"

"What exactly do you think is happening here Darling? I don't eat! I'm a demon. My natural habitat is fire and brimstone … burning coals? bah!" He spat a bark of laughter into her face, was gratified by her flinch of fear. "Get it through your fluffy little head, you daft twat. I'm a monster, you can't cure me with kindness!"

Lifting the child down off her lap slowly, she swallowed and met his eyes flinchingly, he could see the pulse jumping in her throat.

"What about with consecrated blood?" She asked quietly sucking a frightened, shaky breath after. "You call me an idiot, but _I'm_ not the demon stealing blood from a prophet – a vessel of God, and drinking it, injecting it into my veins. You're not a liar Crowley, admit it to yourself. On some level you stopped wanting to be King of Hell a long time ago. You want what's offered _here_ , want to be saved. You crave love and forgiveness, you just don't know how to get them."

" _What I want_ , is to find Castiel and that infernal nephilim, before the bastard that stole my throne. Because if that happens, it's game over, for all of us!"


	101. Chapter 101: Maternal Influences

**Chapter 101: Maternal Influences**

 **Chapter 101**

Michele stared numbly at Crowley from where she sat.

She was beginning to heartily regret her thoughtless altruism, the Christian charity she had learned at her mother's knee. Maybe, she would be rewarded in heaven like her mother said, but right now, it was truer, that no good deed went unpunished.

Having Crowley in her house was shaping up to be an unenjoyable experience. A bit like she'd let a large vicious animal inside and was now at a loss how to get it out again without being attacked.  
now he was in there were few options left at her disposal, apart from to endure, and hope he grew bored. So she'd watched helplessly as he'd roamed about, poked through everything in the rooms he could enter, ransacking her husband's liquor cabinet and generally made himself at home.

He was currently seated at the Family PC, intent on reading every file on the hard drive.  
\- viciously criticising everything he read.

E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G: the folder of bible studies she'd written before Chris was born, the last 10 years of Christmas Letters, the quasi research papers she'd written on Autism, the guide she'd begun writing on how to wrangle the New Zealand school system, if you had a child with special needs...

 _Even_ the gushy, embarrassing poetry she'd written Phil on their first anniversary.

To have someone troll through all that was uncomfortable enough, but to have everything critiqued and commented upon in that smug condescending tone...  
It was like… It was like being back in her parent's house, listening to her father tell her every tiny way she was a failure, each and every thing that was wrong with her. All the reasons she'd never be good enough…

It was a kind of non-contact torture. Crowley's own personal - and vocal, version of hot coals. And she could admit, the demon was a damn sight better at it than she would ever be.

"I'm curious Pet, are you an angel in the kitchen and a demon in the sack." Crowley continued his conjecture unabated, apparently thinking himself the height of wit.

Michele closed her eyes and prayed for patience.

"The most amusing thing is that you dote on _Moose_ , Winchester the younger is all talk and no trousers, Pet.  
Now Dean, he tried something _real_ to look out for you Darling. Nearly poisoned you too – of course, but what do you expect, we value him for his looks, not his intelligence, don't we?"

Michele gritted her teeth.

Crowley reopened the chapter of her fic she'd been working on before he interrupted. Began to read it from the beginning, Michele's stomach lurched uncomfortably as the demon hummed in delight.

"Are you really going to keep pretending Moose sees you as _just_ a friend, Darling? That he doesn't harbour any dirty adulterous aspirations?" The demon sneered mockingly, tapping the computer screen with one manicured finger. "Wake up and smell the ejaculate Darling. ' _Wants to slide the pad of his thumb over the plush give of her bottom lip, see if those lips will part accommodatingly under his exploration…_

 _Wants to feel the warmth of her breath against his skin…'_ " he read out the words mockingly. "His thumb isn't the only thing he wants to push into that mouth of yours, Pet." The demon chortled to himself.

"Stop it," she muttered dully, curling in on herself, and held her sleeping son closer, " _please,_ just stop it!"

"Wha-? " The demon stared over his shoulder at her, looking confused by her outburst.

"I'm not an idiot, _of course_ I know that Sam's a guy. _Of course,_ I know he's confusing me filling some of his emotional emptiness, with something that feels like sexual attraction.  
I'm not stupid enough to think any of _that_ is about me." She muttered and turned her head away, eyes unaccountably brimming with tears.

The demon pushed back from the computer and sauntered over to her, looked down at her, thoughtfully stroking at the stubble beside his mouth.

"You're not wrong Cupcake.  
You remind young Samantha of things and people he wants but can't have - for a variety of interesting reasons.  
From his dead and much lamented first love, Jessica Moore.  
To the Mommy dearest he grew up longing for, whom by all accounts was _never_ the saintly, sweet little homemaker either Winchester believed her to be. ~ Being brought back by Amara, the primordial force of darkness and destruction _may_ account for _some_ of that, of course; Amara doesn't really understand humanity, she probably left out a few of the key squishy bits."  
The demon shrugged carelessly. "But most importantly because you…" the demon tapped her nose almost playfully, and chuckled when she jerked away, "you, with your pretty green eyes, freckles, lack of self-esteem, your self-sacrificing loyalty and tendency to baby him... You remind him of big brother, Dean.  
All rather incestuous, if you ask me!"

Michele narrowed her eyes and glared at the demon as he stood, smiling down at her in amused condescension.

"Does being this awful to everyone make you feel better, Crowley?" She asked quietly, voice colourless.  
"You're so smart, you can turn people's insecurities, pain and longing against them, it's easy isn't it? You know how to play people and you mock us all for our humanity and weakness.  
But you're not so far above it, you act cool and in control, but you're not.  
I know why you drink Craig Scotch whiskey, Crowley – it's because when you were a child, and your mother _just wanted you to go to sleep_ , she'd dose you with whiskey until you passed out. Those moments, when she was doing that, were the closest thing you felt to being loved. That's why it brings you comfort, times like now, when you've been ousted from your throne.  
None of us can help how we feel because of what we've been through. All we can help is what we do with it.

…ooo0ooo…

Dean sat in a chair in Jody's living room, with Alex trying to clean up his screwed-up knee, gritted his teeth and clenched a hand trying to suppress the show of weakness.  
Staring at his Mom he struggled to finish the glass of _water_ Jody put into his hand with antibiotic pills she'd found somewhere.

Mary Winchester was tied to a chair; with a trail of dried blood down her chin, and a cold, challenging smile sat pasted on her face.

"When she clocked me out of the blue, I thought she was a demon." Jody said, pacing the floor "I had no idea that brainwashing could be so thorough!"

"Jody, she..." Dean sighed deeply, his mother continued to stare at him, with cold eyes.  
He looked away, "I'm so sorry." He muttered, unsure what else to say, things could have turned out so differently... the thought made him want to get up and pace like Jody- but his screwed-up leg kept him on his ass.

"It's not _your_ fault." Jody soothed, and rolled her eyes, crossed her arms, " _Fortunately_ , Alex came home…"

"All I did was buy you time. You knocked her out." Alex contributed from where she knelt, dabbing at the oozing mess that was his leg.

Dean couldn't help the grimace and grunt of pain that slipped out.

"I'll get you something for the pain." Alex offered quickly jumping to her feet.

Hastily he downed the last of the water and handed her the glass. "Make it a double," he requested looking hopeful, because pain pills were great, but he _really_ needed a drink.

He turned again to stare morosely at his mother, resisted the urge to start chewing his nails.

Jody sighed and patted his arm in sympathy.  
He allowed himself that moment, to take Jody's hand and squeeze it quickly in thanks. Grateful of the support, and the fact that both her and Alex were okay.

"Aww." Mary sneered from the other side of the room. "You wanna play mother to _my_ son?" Jody tensed, and Dean felt a moment of pain for her. Jody had a son once… and she'd lost him, then had salt rubbed in the wound when he came back, as a zombie and murdered her husband, all so Death could send him Sam and Bobby a message.  
They'd told Mom a bit about Jody's history, now Mary was using that to hurt her.

"He's all yours." Mary jibed carelessly, looked at him like he was nothing.  
He sucked a breath.

"Dean!" Jody warned, trying to grab his attention. "That's not your Mom," she argued, shaking her head.

Dean blinked and stared at his mother, his eyes stinging… _God!_ he wished that were true … but there was a seeping doubt inside of him.  
She'd walked away and chosen the British Men of Letters over him and Sam, long before they brainwashed her….  
Somehow, he just couldn't drag his eyes away from Mary's face.

"What's the matter, Dean?" Mary asked with a smile. "Am I too different from the Mary you know?" she taunted. "…Or too much the same?" The woman with his mother's face mocked. Dean swallowed and looked away. Jody was right, not his Mom… couldn't be.

Thankfully Sammy chose that moment to interrupt by hauling Toni Bevell into the room.

"Here she is. Do your thing." Sam ordered shortly looking pissed, and Dean wondered if Sam had heard Mom's last cut. Or if Toni had been spewing mare vitriol at Sam while they were alone.

"All right, you said you could fix her, so fix her." He agreed with his brother.

Toni swallowed and looked worried, "I, um... Well, I –" the usually unflappable British woman looked worried.

"She lied!" Mary smirked.

"What?" Sam demanded.

"Mary's programming… It's permanent," Toni admitted reluctantly.

"But, you said..." Dean argued, hoping the British bitch would sneer and admit she'd just been lying to mess with them.

"You were going to kill me!" Toni argued. "The Mary that you know, the good Mary, she's hiding behind impenetrable psychic walls; and I'm afraid these walls..." the British woman scoffed lightly, "Well, they can't be torn down with grenades."

Toni dropped her eyes in something like regret. "Your mother can't be saved." She admitted simply.

From across the room, Mary Winchester met Dean's horrified gaze and smirked.

…ooo0ooo…

Crowley stared at the woman letting his head rock lazily on his neck, as he stared down at her with a pasting on amused smirk.

" _That's_ the best you've got?" He raised an eyebrow and blew out a derisive breath.

Michele sighed, suddenly feeling utterly weary under the demon's unrelenting scorn and contempt. She just wanted to curl up and cry.  
If she did, some of those tears would have fallen for Fergus Macleod, a little boy trapped inside a demon, no father and a mother that believed love was weakness.

"No, the best I've got, is to say I'm sorry." She answered sadly, "I'm sorry that your mother didn't love you the way you deserved to be loved." She sighed and looked away from him, it was too confusing to see him wearing her husbands clothes, she pressed a kiss to her own son's soft curls, and held him close.

When she looked up Crowley was gone.

…ooo0ooo…

Dean cocked his gun and approached Toni. "All right, "Lady," time's up.  
We only kept you alive for one reason."

"Hey, guys." Sam yammered, and Dean winced, of course Sam would argue, after everything, that they shouldn't kill Toni.

"Listen, uh, Ketch keeps callin' Mom's phone." Oh!— Dean raised an eyebrow, this once Sammy wasn't arguing.

"I'll get it." Mary offered snidely.

"Let it go to voicemail." He grated annoyed. Shoving Toni hard. "Let's take a nice little short walk to the backyard."

Toni began struggling. "This is not going to stop.  
Soon enough, they'll find out you're alive, and then...  
Well, if you want my advice – run."

"We're not running." Dean muttered

"Well, then. .. You die." The British woman predicted fatalistically.

"Or..." Sam suggested

"Or what?" Toni asked, sensing a reprieve.

"Or, we fight."

At Sam's words Dean tilted his head to share a look with his brother and dropped Toni's arm. "Seems you just got useful again, Sweetheart."

"There's no way you three can go up against the British Men of Letters."

Jody smiled slow and predatory. "Who said it was just us three. Seems to me, when they decided to wipe out every hunter here, they turned it into war against all of us.  
I think Sam's right, we need to take the fight to them. It's an invasion of our home. It's time we did like the thirteen colony's, fought for our independence."

…ooo0ooo…

Michele smudged at the blood on her face feeling sick.  
Picked up her phone and blinked at it dully, she wasn't crying, not now.

What did it mean, this lack of tears? She wondered if she finally reached her mental limit?

Months ago, when this first started, seeing what she'd just seen would have turned her into a useless wreck.  
But now, now, she simply set her mind to working out how to stop it...

….

 _The image of Dean stumbling, and his injured leg crumpling under his weight at the worst possible moment, a cry of pain forced unwillingly from his lips._

 _The slow-motion inatant, as Sam heard his brother's cry and turned his head, Dean's name forming on his lips._

 _Sam failing to see the black clad guard come around the corner._

 _A shot ringing out._

 _Sam's head kicked back by the bullet, as it entered at his temple and exited in a straight line, leaving catastrophic destruction in its wake._

" _Sammy!"_

 _Sam's lifeless body pitching to the floor. A trail of gore down the wall behind._

 _Dean struggling to force himself to his feet._

 _A second shot ringing out._

 _Dean's corpse falling back … empty green eyes still seemingly fixed on where his brother lay dead._

…ooo0ooo…

"Dean, I need you to listen to me, I know you are intending to take the fight to the British Men of Letters."

"Sweetheart…" Dean's voice had all the resonances of a parent telling a child something nasty was necessary.

"Shut-it and listen!" She spat, "Dean you _can't_ go with Sam.  
You have to let him do this alone!"

Dean grunted in surprise, he'd expected her to be arguing about the sanctity of human life. Not to say he should let Sam go into combat without him.

"What? You have to be joking, I can't send Sammy up against those douchbags alone!"

Dean wouldn't ever happily let his brother face that sort of danger without him.

" **You** _ **can,**_ **and you** _ **will**_ **!"** Michele answered fiercely, terrified he wouldn't listen.  
"You have to! Or you're signing your brother's death warrant.  
If you go, you get Sam killed! That's not a guess, _**I've seen it, Okay**_?! _**I've seen his brains splattered on the wall."**_ She allowed herself one choked breath.

This was a gamble, and if she was wrong, Dean would never forgive her.  
She _knew_ he would rather die beside his brother in a shoot out than outlive him.

"I'm begging you, for once Dean, LISTEN TO ME. You know I love you, I love you both. You feel he's your responsibility, I get it ... but he's an adult, and responsibility, sometimes it's about stepping back, letting them do what you've trained them to do, alone, so they can grow.  
Let your brother grow up, Dean! Please! Believe in him enough to trust him to do what needs to be done, without you."

"Mitch…."

"Dean, I heard what Toni said, but I don't believe it." She rushed on. "I don't believe your mother can't be saved. Toni said she's in there, hiding.  
 **Hiding isn't gone**."

She hadn't had a vision, she didn't know! But Dean needed a mission, he needed to know he'd exhausted every avenue.  
Dean still loved his Mom.

Michele just prayed that the woman deserved it; that there was enough of the Mary Winchester who stepped up in front of Billy and offered her life in place of her son's, left that it mattered.


	102. Chapter 102: Stepping Back

**Chapter 102: Stepping back**

 **Chapter 102**

" _If you go, you get Sam killed! You're signing your brother's death warrant. That's not a guess, I've seen it, Okay?! I've seen his brains splattered on the wall."_

The accusation circled in Dean's head.

He hadn't told Sam about Mitch's call.

He'd limped back in from the impala numbly, after she'd hung up and he'd retrieved the dog eared notebook of Hunter contacts, Bobby had left them with.

" _I'm begging you, for once Dean, LISTEN TO ME."_

Throughout the hours of pumping Toni for info on the Men of Letters defences, formulating an attack plan, trying to talk a bunch of leery hunters into turning up at Jody's without giving them much info; Dean fought a back and forth war within himself.

" _You know I love you, I love you both."_

Sure, Mitch _seemed_ to care, maybe not the way Sam might want…but she always _seemed_ to have Sam's best interest at heart. Thing was, _maybe_ it was an act. How well did they actually know the woman?

Letting Sammy go up against the British Men of Letters alone… with no-one to watch his back… it went against everything Dean saw as his brother's best interest.

" _You feel he's your responsibility, I get it ... but he's an adult, and responsibility, sometimes it's about stepping back, letting them do what you've trained them to do, alone, so they can grow."_

Sure. Sure Sam was an adult he knew that … But… this wasn't a game…

This was _**war**_ , going up against long odds, trained killers.

Mitch _didn't understand,_ or she wouldn't suggest it!

".. _I've seen his brains splattered on the wall!"_

Besides, she had douchbag angel and yellow eyed demon in her, what if she was some kind of double agent?

Who was to say she wasn't playing them? What if all this was some form of long con?

" _I've seen it, Okay?!"_

Who said what she saw was even right? Even if Mitch wasn't playing them and 100% meant well.

It wasn't like she saw everything, knew everything. She and Sam were forever telling him that.

" _If you go, you get Sam killed."_

What if she got it wrong, what if he didn't go… and Sam _still_ got killed? While he sat here with his thumb up his ass because he'd trusted some woman with no fricking idea.

By the time the other hunters started turning up at Jody's door, Dean was no further ahead, no closer to determining if he ought to inform Sam of Mitch's call, or deciding if he should listen to her.

…..

"Feet off the table, Jerry." Jody scolded one of the greying hunters, and continued handing out beer.

"Thanks." He muttered, taking the beer Jody offered him, but didn't raise the bottle to his lips.

His leg was killing him and he really wanted to get off it, or to take the edge off with something stronger; but knew he needed to keep a clear head.

Stayed on his feet by Sam's side, unwilling to show weakness around a group of Hunters, or leave too much space between him and Sam. He was never fully at ease in a room of strangers.

…

There was a knock on the door.

"That should be the last one." Jody informed them easily.

Dean braced himself as Alex answered the door.

This moment, was the one thing he'd really argued with Jody and Sam over, the other reason for his jangling nerves.

The last two hunters walked into the room together.

"Walt. Roy." Sam greeted nervously, giving the two Hunters a nod of greeting.

"Well, damn." Walt breathed in surprise at seeing them.

"We haven't seen you guys since –" Roy began, looking edgy.

"Since you killed us." Dean answered antagonistically, and felt Sam tense by his side; remembered belatedly he'd promised Sam and Jody he wouldn't do this, that they needed every hunter they could get.

"No hard feelings," he added with a sideways shake of his head, trying for a less defensive tone; while the sense memory, of Sam's body flying backwards after the close quarters impact of that shotgun blast to the chest, played in his head on loop.

Walt and Roy shared a look and Walt blew out a breath, raised an eyebrow at his friend.

"Uh, please, get comfortable." Sam offered in a consolatory tone.

And it was all Dean could do, to stay put and not march over and rip the assholes lungs out, when he saw that shadowed guilty look on Sam's face. Walt and Roy ought to be the ones feeling guilty, not Sam.

"You sure about this?" Dean asked his brother again.

Sam opened his mouth. Nerves, guilt and pain written all over his face, he nodded tersely.

"You gonna tell us what we're doing here, or what?" Walt challenged and Dean took a step forward.

Sam put out an arm and shoved him lightly, it wasn't a hard shove, but it was hard enough to make Dean's leg give slightly. He took an abrupt seat on the arm of the chair behind him.

"Ah. Of course. Yeah...Um, so my – my brother and I, we – we, um..." Sam looked at him like a deer in the headlights, then back at Walt.

Took a breath and straightened his shoulders. "No, you know what?.. _I_ called you here because people..." he took as step towards Walt and Roy. "Our people, are being slaughtered.

And we're next."

The hunters round the room shifted and exchanged glances, they'd all heard the rumours, maybe even expected this.

"The British Men of Letters, they came here because they thought they could do our job better than we could.

And they hooked us with their flashy gear and their tech.

Most of you had the good sense to turn 'em down.

I didn't." Sam admitted and Dean felt a well of pride for his brother. Sam huffed in self derision and nodded.

"They _said_ they wanted the same thing we wanted, you know?

A world free of monsters.

That's not what they really wanted…

They want control.

They want to live in a world where they can sit in some office and decide who gets to live and who gets to die.

And they've killed people.

They've killed _innocent_ people just because they got in the way.

They think the ends justify the means.

But we know better…"

Dean watched the faces of the hunters in the room as Sam continued talking, his voice full of entreaty and passion.

He watched those faces as the tide of opinion and mistrust Walt and Roy had turned, begun to roll back.

"So what do you want from us?" Roy asked finally.

"I want you to follow me. Take the fight to them. To hit them, before they hit us." Sam appealed, looking Roy in the eye fiercely.

Dean lifted his head at Sam's words, remembered Sam's admittal in the Bunker, as the oxygen grew thin.

And in that moment Dean could see it, that thing Mitch had been trying to tell him, even before today… that the guy standing here, his little brother, was trying to grow up, to be responsible and clean up his own mistakes.

That Sam might always want him, but maybe, he actually didn't need him.

Usually these moments, when he faced Sam's lack of need, made him feel panicky and useless, but today it was almost comforting.

" _Responsibility, sometimes it's about stepping back, letting them do what you've trained them to do, alone, so they can grow."_

Dean blinked and stared at Sam.

He knew he could step in, once again, and invalidate this for Sam, give him the message that he'd always be the kid in the equation - Or he could trust his brother, and let him grow up.

It was never about trusting Mitch.

It was about trusting Sam, believing in him.

Sam wasn't a kid anymore.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam was worried about his brother.

He'd gone out to the impala to get Bobby's contact book and when he came back, after way too long, Dean had seemed off, broody and distracted.

Maybe it was the stuff with Mom, he'd come in on the tail end of something, when he brought Toni back in… and then discovering Toni had lied… Well, Sam guessed, _that_ had to hit Dean hard.

Maybe it was his knee, after Michele talking about Tetanus and infection, he'd never been more glad of Alex's nurses training or Jody's stash of antibiotics.

Maybe it was Walt and Roy, being forced to share air and make nice with the two Hunters that killed them, repressing that Winchester instinct for vengeance...

Heaven knows being reminded of back then, their little sojourn in heaven, the pile of unspoken hurts they'd never dealt with… well it wasn't doing Sam's head any favours either.

But the job came first.

Dean had been unusually quiet through the task of convincing the other Hunters to join them against the Men of Letters. Dean always said he was better with convincing people to do stuff, said it was his emo puppy eyes and psycho babble lawyer bullcrap, but usually Dean couldn't help chipping in or making some off color joke. Often those additions weren't exactly helpful, but without them he felt off balance.

Jody, Toni and Alex had added more to filling the other Hunters in on the plan. Meanwhile Dean sat there with a weird contemplative look on his face.

Maybe Dean was just tired, Sam'd make sure he slept some on the way to the Men of Letters compound.

"You know where we're going?" Jody asked the room at large and flipped him the impalas keys, a silent suggestion that Sam drive.

Sam caught them fumblingly "Yep." He replied for everyone else in the room.

"Gear up we roll out in ten." She announced.

Sam reached over and grabbed his brother's forearm, dragged Dean to his feet.

"You ready?" He asked.

Dean stood with difficulty.

"Ooh." He winced "Oh, no.

I'm not goin'."

Sam stared at his brother in surprise, "What?"

"No," Dean repeated again. "My leg busted up the way it is, I'm no good in a fight." Dean looked down at his knee and away from Sam's eyes.

"I-I'll take a jacked-up Dean Winchester over any 10 other Hunters; any day." Sam stammered.

"Yeah." His brother muttered, looked up at him and took a small breath, "I saw you." Dean laid a hand on his arm. "You're ready for this." He told him almost gently.

Sam shuffled his feet and stared into his brother's green eyes.

There was so much in Dean's eyes in that moment.

Dean swallowed.

"You show those sons of bitches who's boss." He ordered with a small nod and a heart breaking smile.

It was like a stone settling in Sam's stomach, a feeling of loss.

"What about you? What are you gonna do?" He asked finally.

"I'm gonna save Mom." Dean answered, with that weird small smile on his face.

Sam took a step back from his brother and squared his shoulders, nodded in reply.

There was a stab of hurt in that, that he was choosing Mom.

"Look, if she's in there, if our real Mom is in there somewhere," Dean took a shaky breath, "then I'm gonna try and find her, an' bring her back."

Sam found himself nodding, if anyone could do it, Dean would.

Sam handed his brother the impalas keys, he'd ride with Jody.

Dean slid the keys into his pocket.

Just stared at him, like he used to when Dad took him away on a hunt, when he was forced to walk away and leave his little brother behind in some seedy motel room, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

Dean gave him that same grin and slight shake of his head.

"You got this." Dean coached, then swallowed, and a flash of pure terror showed through that confident veneer he habbitually wore.

"Come here." Dean demanded suddenly and tugged him into a hug, held into him tight and fierce, in a way Dean never usually allowed himself.

"You come back." He ordered, his voice gruff against Sam's shoulder.

"Promise."

For a second Dean held him tighter, then slapped his back and pushed him away slightly, a muttered "Bitch." on his lips.

The usual sign that this aberrant chick flick moment was over.

"Jerk." He replied, looking away with a smile.

"Yeah." Dean answered, in response to all the things they never said, the ones that simmered unspoken in the air in these moments.

Feeling his brother's eyes on him, Sam turned and walked away.


	103. Chapter 103: Swell Tricks

**Chapter 103:** **Swell Tricks**

 **Chapter 103**

Crowley lent against the hood of the silver people mover and waited, hands buried deep in his coat pockets and the mask of an affable smile on his face.

He watched the flow of parents dropping their children off at the suburban school thoughtfully.

Most parents simply parked their vehicles up and shooed their children out onto the curb.

The object of his attentions, however, would be delivering her eight year old personally to the teacher, as she did every day.

This act of helicopter parenting was something the demon usually found pathetically amusing.

But today, after ransacking a blood bank the evening prior, indulging himself with an orgy of human sensation and emotion; Crowley found himself viewing his pet Prophet's dedication to her progeny with a new veneer of sentimentality.

The school bell rang.

A few minutes later his reticent Prophet and her youngest child approached, cutting across the playing field.

The once King of Hell frowned, watching the listless way the woman walked, her feet dragging through the grass, with the child tugging her along.

It wasn't until they left the school that she raised her eyes, and she noticed him standing there.

Even then, she barely reacted, just continued to walk doggedly towards her car.

The child stopped on the curb and looked up at him with a dimpled grin of recognition on its face.

"Garr 'ace 'aww," it announced nonsensically.

Drawing the child against her, the mother unlocked the car, refused to make eye contact, gave him a wide berth and stepped around him to install the infant into it's car seat, without saying a word.

Crowley eye balled the woman, disappointed by her lack lustre response to his presence. Taking note of the glaze of perspiration on her skin and the dull glassy look to her eyes, he surmised the lack of greeting or fear was a sign she was feeling a tad under the weather.

"Poppet you look like Hell, and I should know." He needled, trying to provoke a more satisfying reaction.

"Yeah…" she replied wearily, voice husky with illness. Paused to smooth a tender hand through the child's hair, as if drawing strength. The straightened and shut the car door.

Michele faced him for a moment, with her chin lifted and an impassive stare, as if daring him to make her day worse. Then, dropped her head and coughed into her hand.

"No neutrophils means no immune system, I'm sort of dying Crowley," she answered matter of factly, then shrugged. "Hell isn't where I'm going though."

"I _could_ fix all of that, Pet." He offered with a come-on smile on his lips.

The woman rolled her eyes tiredly. "Yeah— 'but it's a little bit embarrassing, there's this technicality... you need a little something to get the magic going.' Right?

I'd get between one and ten years extra, in exchange for my soul, and an eternity of torment in Hell, forever separated from God?

I'll pass thanks.

Demon deals and lotto, are both for people who suck at maths."

Crowley tilted his head with a half smile of acknowledgement, pleased to have dragged out more than an automated response.

"Touché. But Darling, do tell. What's so attractive about heaven? Solitary confinement, under angelic lock down, replaying a bunch of your old memories? I hear tell, big G left the building and is now road tripping god-knows-where—pun intended, with his sister. So separation from God… I'd say, that's a moot point."

"Mmmm." The woman husked and turned away from him to climb into the vehicle's driver's seat, shutting the door in his face.

 _Rude!_

Crowley transported himself into the cars passenger seat uninvited. Tapped his fingers irritably against his knee, glared as she lent back in her seat looking exhausted, she glanced at him, then took out her phone and appeared to google something.

" _Isaiah 65:17: See, I will create new heavens and a new earth._

 _The former things will not be remembered, nor will they come to mind."_

The woman read the scripture verse off her phone in a ravaged voice. Coughed and turned her head to look at him. "The Bible says that after, the _real, actual,_ Revelations apocalypse and final judgement. God will create a _new_ Heavens and a _new_ Earth, the rest of the chapter talks about people building homes and raising crops, living _life_ with God present. That, before God's people call Him, He'll answer them, so that road trip, doesn't last forever." She broke off to cough into her hand once again.

The demon hid a disgusted grimace at the sound and sight of the woman's sickness from the closer vantage point.

"That's the big picture Crowley." She continued doggedly, as if imparting theology was a useful way to spend her lagging energy. "The status quo of Heaven and Hell now… it's just a holding tank, until after that final judgement…"

He grunted, "I bet you, and your google bible verses, are a real hit at parties Kitten."

"Garr 'ace aww!" The infant proclaimed again from it's place in the back seat. The child's mother looked over her shoulder and the side of her mouth twitched, as if the sounds meant something amusing.

"Do share with the rest of the class, Pet.

Winston Churchill in the back had something to add?"

"Maybe it's your propensity to dress in black… or just an association with the story… or this..." The woman canted towards him a little unsteadily and brushed a fever hot hand along his cheek, next to the mostly healed wound in his meat suit.

"Chris seems to have it in his head that you're Scar Face Claw, the toughest tom in town."

Crowley lifted a brow, and ran one finger down the back of the small, too hot hand still on his face.

Belatedly, the Prophet realised what she was doing and snatched her hand back from his face, shying away.

"Sorry… I didn't … know demons could heal Uh …dead bodies. " She coloured with discomfort, before turning her face away to smother another burst of coughing.

"Most can't. But I'm not exactly demon minion number three."

He adjusted his tie self importantly, brushing a hand over the imperceptible bulk of his stash of contracts (with that special, extra, open ended clause) he kept on him at all times.

Annoyingly her response was minimal, again. She simply turned the car-key to start the vehicle. Then sat blinking through the windscreen, as if she'd forgotten where she wanted to go, or how to drive.

He was here to extract information from her about Lucifer's spawn, before it was born, or the bastard who ousted him tracked down the brood mare and heaven's most moronic angel.

"You're sick." He accused, "can't you go to the hospital, take an antibiotic or something?"

"It's probably a virus… you don't treat viruses with antibiotics... " she muttered, then rolled her head sideways and smiled at him almost vindictively. "Besides if I get a decent case of pneumonia, maybe I'll die. Then you won't have any reason to keep stalking my family, will you, your majesty? I thought about it, you know," she murmured laconically, "just slitting my wrists, after you turned up and threatened Johnny… but… my family they'd blame themselves. And I thought … I thought… play for time…I could still be more use than burden to them, do more good than bad ... I didn't have anything you could use to harm anyone." Her face creased. "Then I thought you were dead, and they were _dying_ and a small nasty part of me was _happy,_ you know." She laugh-coughed mirthlessly as she stared at him with fever bright eyes. "But they didn't, and you weren't… you turned up on my doorstep and I found I was _relieved_ … I'd actually _felt guilty_ for not being able to help _you,_ even though you probably got what you deserved.

Guess you're right, I must be stupid.

So now, we're back here, and I won't _choose_ to leave my family, but when my time runs out — whether that's because I finally bleed out, or you snap my neck… or from this dumb virus. I'll be _glad_ it's over." A tear rolled unnoticed down her cheek. "I'm so tired… _and it hurts all the time._

So… tell me, why are you here Crowley? What do you want?" She asked in a broken voice, sat there looking for all the world like a puppet with it's strings cut.

No wonder the Winchester's wanted to adopt her like some stray cat, Crowley thought and shifted uncomfortably.

He regretted the human blood that was still swirling through his system, making him feel - _pity,-_ making him want to reach out and lay a consoling hand on her shoulder and say something - _comforting-_.

This was infuriating, she wasn't any bleeding use to him like this, mostly bled out and sick. A pathetic little ball of wet fur.

Then It occurred to him, how he could use the situation to his advantage.

He dipped a hand inside his coat and drew out a contract and pen, began to write in a sub clause.

"I told you Crowley, I'm not making a deal!"

"Oh I'm cognisant of that. And I'm not one to waste time pursuing a bird who has no intention of putting out, unlike Moose.

But there is more than one way to tame a shrew. The interesting thing about those individuals who _do_ deal away their souls, and _are_ as you said, bad at math… is that they invariably undersell … even the most blackened soul is worth _far_ more than the selling price… A sub clause here, ambiguous wording there… and wallah! _L-e-e-w-a-y_..." he paused for effect, and smiled at her, " _I know all kinds of swell tricks, Kitten._

…And I look after my friends… we _are_ friends, aren't we Poppet?"

Sam's pet's eyes widened in horror. "No! No, no, no you can't!"she protested, finally dredging up some passion to fight against the idea of benefiting from someone else's damnation. Of having her get out of jail free card shredded. She was so like Deano, this would eat her up.

 _Delicious!_

"Oh, _but I can…_ in fact I _insist_." He gloated finishing the sub clause with a small flourish, while he restrained her easily with just a thread of power.

Crowley tapped his lips with the pen and watched narrow eyed and amused, relishing his barbed victory as the clause took affect.

It was worth tapping out one of his dwindling supply of contracts, for the sight of that perfect glowing health, and abject horror.


	104. Chapter 104: The hook in the bait

**Chapter 104: The hook in the bait**

 **Chapter 104**

Michele was struggling.

Crowley had really hit her self esteem with his criticism the day before, had left her internally fragile and wobbly.

Then later, she'd overheard one of her daughters on the phone to a friend.  
Jennifer spoke of hearing a call between her dad and his boss, while Michele was in hospital.

Apparently, Phil's boss wasn't as supportive as he had led her to believe.

Being hit by a car had been stupid, and the nosebleeds were the worlds most pitiful symptom ever. Maybe, if she'd been diagnosed with cancer, his boss would be more understanding, but this… sickness, with no name or reasonable cause… he must be wondering if she was just useless, a hypochondriac.

The useless bit was starting to feel truer each day.

Especially after Phil raised the idea of putting their two-year-old into day-care (which they couldn't afford) that night, as they lay in bed.

She'd always been the one who looked after everyone else, it was her job! Now, Phil thought she couldn't do it.

She was becoming a burden to the people she loved.

Then, as if to confirm all the doubts and fears she'd fallen asleep battling; she woke with a sore throat, that was rapidly becoming something worse, something that might require _another_ hospital stay.

It felt like the final straw, to see Crowley, standing outside Johnny's school waiting for her.

She tried to push aside her worries and despair, the way she did every other day. Tried to find the opportunity and the good.

But then, Crowley had looked at her with such withering distaste, as he told her to take an antibiotic or go to the hospital, and she'd felt beyond exhausted.

So tired of the losing battle … of failing EVERYONE.

~ Crowley didn't actually care, he was a demon. And that made him the only person she could be honest with, about the despair she was choking on.  
She couldn't hurt or fail _him_. Dying might be the best thing she could do. Crowley wanted to use her to track Kelly and her child. Was Crowley right? Was the nephilim a threat to everything, did it need to die? Could or should Sam and Dean try removing it's grace? Or were Castiel and Kelly right that it should it be born with all its power? That it could be a force for good.

Michele hated that she didn't know, that she couldn't trust herself to decide, because Crowley was threatening her family.

She wanted to hit back at the demon somehow, to shake his endless smug self-confidence. So she opened her mouth and started talking.

Once she started talking, she said too much, and it all came out like a lapful of vomit…

How she'd considered following Kelly's example.

Her guilt and conflicted emotions when Sam and Dean had been trapped and suffocating, when she thought Crowley was dead...

How she just longed for it to be over.

She knew she'd said to much, when Crowley smiled that smile.

When he took out a scroll and pen.

Reiterating again, that she wouldn't make a deal didn't affect his smile.

He just started talking about people underselling their souls, subclauses, ambiguous wording and leeway, while he scratched his pen over the parchment.

Through the fog of fever, it came to her with a sudden horrifying clarity, what Crowley was suggesting.

"No! No, no, no you can't!"

Surely Crowley couldn't use some _other_ person's soul…?  
She wanted to grab Chris and flee, but the demon was a step ahead, he wrapped her in his sulphurous power, and held her pinned.

"Oh, but I can… in fact I insist." The demon assured her, his eyes glinting red as he stared at her avidly, tapping the gold fountain pen to his smirking lips.

The magic slammed into her, penetrating and pervading her body and blood. Erasing the months of incremental damage, between one breath and the next.

The change, from circling the drain, to unscathed health, like a snap of his fingers.

It bordered on orgasmic.

Left her gasping.

All the while Crowley held her there, pinned. Stared into her eyes as it happened, a sick parody of intimacy; one she hadn't wanted or consented to, but was too weak to fight.

It felt like an invasion, felt so much worse than when she'd found out what he'd done to her at the duck pond, licking her blood off his fingers while she was passed out and helpless.

But this… _**Ohhhhh this!**_

Everything in her sang after dragging through her days for so long, and her traitorous heart rebelled against giving _this_ up … now that she'd tasted it.

This thing Crowley had done, it looked like a gift, a kindness, and that was surely the manipulation.

It was wrong, wrong, wrong!

The cost was some stranger's _**soul**_.

Her head knew it, but her heart couldn't help the fierce greedy gratitude.

Crowley tucked the scroll away into his jacket, like a magician.

Cupped her chin in his hand and examined her closely, his eyes intent as he brushed his thumb over her bottom lip and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, then let her go.  
He nodded to himself, pleased.

"Better?" The demon enquired mildly, a smug smile hovering on his lips.

"I didn't ask for that." She forced the words out, trying for anger and resentment, but it came out softer and more wondering.

"What? That little tantrum _wasn't_ a cry for help?" The demon challenged.

"Deny it all you want, Pet. You _want_ this.

Think of Moppet in the back. Precious, fragile Johnny in there.

Your lovely twins. Clueless, doting hubby.

They all _need_ you, Darling." He splayed his hands and looked at her mildly.

"Chin up, Poppet. Robin Barrett was hell bound anyway."

The name screeched across her conscience, like nails down a blackboard. "Robin Barrett?" She repeated in a whisper.

"One-time Priest…" Crowley supplied, eyebrows raised.

 _A Priest?!_ Michele buried her face in her hands, throat clogged with self loathing, as she thought of John Winchester bartering his soul for Dean's recovery, and of Dean selling his soul for Sam. _She had to make him take this back, it was wrong, wrong wrong._

"One-time Priest, a-n-d registered child sex offender." Crowley continued in an amused tone. "Acquitted once again, last month on child pornography charges… As he will continue to be… for… the next ten months, nine days and 15 hours…"

Michele raised her eyes and stared at him.

"Then, my hounds will tear him a cornucopia of new orifices, and he'll get to enjoy the attentions of the rack staff." Crowley flashed her a winning smile.  
"I know Robin Barrett is everything you _loath,_ Sweetness… A man who claimed to serve _your_ God. Who used his position to prey on _vulnerable_ , _innocent children._

Robin Barrett, he deserves everything he will get.

But you?… You love God, you're one of his favourites, a prophet… the last perhaps. What kind of God would want _you_ to suffer? Surely you deserve this…"

And it was seductive, that temptation to compare, and call herself worthy, and the other person; this Robin Barrett, he was a pedophile, it would be easy to say he was irredeemably unworthy – expendable for her sake.

It was human.

But a quieter voice argued that judgement was God's, not hers or Crowey's. That Crowley was a demon, and there was a hook buried in this bait.

"Crowley, it doesn't matter who he is, or what he's done. No matter how _**despicable**_ I find his sins… t-there is a right and a wrong…. This is wrong. I can't accept this…. please...take it back."

"Take it back _, take it back!?_ This is what I get, _for trying_." Crowley spat, looking affronted.

"You said, _you said_ it was about what we choose to do. So, I _chose!_ Spent resources I could use _to reclaim my throne_ , I chose to h-e-l-p you. I thought… you would be grateful…

You don't care about your children growing up alone, do you? You _want_ to abandon them. Your black and white, holier than thou world view, that's what you actually care about, isn't it? Everything else you said, about repentance and redemption, was a _lie_!" Crowley turned away from her, arms crossed.

"Nooo Crowley," She reached out and laid a hand on the demon's back, felt the muscles tense and relax under her hand.

"I am grateful… I am, really… and I _do_ want to live… I think there's good in you, Crowley… but being _responsible_ for damning…"

Crowley turned back and looked at her, for a second there was something disconcerting in his expression.

"You aren't. I am." The demon replied calmly, mercurial in his responses.

He dusted an invisible speck from his jacket lapel. "Done is done, I won't take it back. And it won't last, so let's not quibble over it." He suggested.

Her phone chose then to begin chiming, a Skype call, Sam or Dean.

She glanced at Crowley guiltily as she pulled out her phone.

"It's Dean…" she told him softly, tilting the phone so he could see the screen.

Guilt clamoured under her skin, if Dean knew what had happened he'd think she was some sort of parasite…

"I… I won't answer."

Crowley caught her cast encased wrist. "Don't refuse on my account. In fact, _I insist._ " He leaned in, and a loud crack came from the now pointless cast on her wrist. Michele looked down at it with shocked eyes, to see the fibreglass had pulverised under Crowley's grip.

"Pretend like I'm not even here." He advised in an easy, good natured voice. His threat however, was clear.

"Dean?" She answered hesitantly.

The phone shot out of her hand, into Crowley's. The demon put it onto speaker-phone and laid it nonchalantly on the dash between them.

"Hey Mitch, wantedta tell you, I … didn't go with Sam…"

Crowley raised an intrigued eyebrow.

Michele closed her eyes and let out a breath. Helplessly confused by the barrage of mixed signals Crowley kept subjecting her to.

She tried to centre herself on Dean, she owed him that much. He'd done what she'd asked, and it must have been hard to let Sam go without him.

"Thank-you… I know that must have been hard."

Dean hummed cynically in reply. "Yeah… Mitch, listen, about what you said, that hiding ain't gone, Toni's gonna try getting' me into Mom's head…"

Michele glanced across at Crowley. "That's … that's good Dean."

"Thing is…" He faltered, and Michele winced internally at the vulnerability in his voice, "I don't know… How do _I_ get her to come back? … I mean, Sammy's better at that stuff."

Michele tried to push the weight of Crowley's presence aside, she knew Dean was only asking her advice because he was terrified of failing.

"Dean, honey… it's not about having the right four syllable words. It's about connection, you're her _child_ , her _son_. My advice is to be honest. I'd do _anything_ for my kids."

"You would, yeah... Don't think Mom feels that way about us though Mitch… she keeps leavin', ya know. We're not... _I'm_ not worth …"

"Hey, don't you dare tell me you aren't worth _the world_ , Dean. You saved it, remember. You are worth _EVERYTHING_."

Dean scoffed, as usual unconvinced.

"Your mother leaving all those times, that was about her - On her, not _you_ ; or Sam."

Dean made a 'yeah right' sound.

"Look, some Mum's they can't give their kids what they need, my girls birth Mum for example, and that's Not the kids fault, I need you to get that, okay? Your Mum makes choices, _has_ made choices, _for herself_ and they've wounded you and Sam, but they weren't _about_ you.

If she chooses to stay in her head… that isn't your fault either, okay?

I see you Dean Winchester, and _I know_ you are worth EVERYTHING, worth pushing through what ever is going on in her head for. If she hears you, sees you, and doesn't choose to fight, or come back... then that's all _her_ failure.

Get her to look at you, and tell her the truth, all the truth, be honest with her, Dean. Tell her how you feel, I know you hate being emotional, but your emotions can be a powerful tool. Use them, tell her how you feel, all of it, the good the bad and the ugly.

That way, no matter what happens, you'll know you did your best, maybe that'll help you move past and find a way to forgive her for all the things that have happened."

Dean made a sound in the back of his throat, the way he was breathing betrayed his deepening discomfort, that snapped her attention back to Crowley listening in. She didn't want him to say anything the demon could use against him.

"How's your leg?" She asked, changing abruptly to a less emotionally charged topic.

"Sammy said you were worried. You wanna play doctors and nurses?"

Humour, Dean Winchester's go to. His safe ground.

"I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards and broken things… So yes, I want you hale and healthy. Not broken or crippled."

Dean snorted. "What ever Tyrion. It's just a flesh wound. Jody gave me some antibiotics. So, I'm good, not gonna get lockjaw, need my leg chopped off or anythin'."

"Yeah, yeah just a flesh wound... But see, I know that's what you are Dean Winchester; Flesh and bone, and bones only make up about 15% of your average humanbeing."

Dean chuckled darkly. "Not average in any measurement, Sweetheart, especially when it comes to the bone." His voice was all dark chocolate and sin, when he talked like that it always made her flustered.

She flushed and flicked a glance sideways at Crowley.

"Whatever, everything's bigger in America, especially the talk and the egos, doesn't make it better." She replied a bit lamely.

She could feel Crowley's eyes on her, probably noting how she was blushing, and formulating more assumptions. And wouldn't that be just her luck.

"How's band camp?" A while back, Dean had clicked that the redheaded geek girl with an unexpectedly racy side in the American Pie movies was also called Michelle. He'd teased her that she had a million 'this one time at band camp' stories about her family. Thankfully, Sam had put the brakes on the whole conversation, before she'd done something inappropriate, like asking the Hunter if he'd ever loved him some pie, in that way…

Thing was, Dean did actually seem to like her stories about her kids and family.

"Uh, band camp is okay." She answered, without adding on her usual rejoinder, calling him 'American pie.' Hoping furiously Crowley wouldn't catch the reference.

She thought for a bit to come up with a suitable life in hobbitville story to amuse him. "Last week while I was, uh, out -and her father didn't know what she was up to-. Victoria decided to cut up one of her pairs of jeans. To make shorts. But Vic being Vic, she made them w-a-y too short, like if she bent over you could see her knickers… Apparently she wanted to wear the damn things to her school sports day. Her excuse being that her other shorts made her too hot."

Dean cleared his throat, "More like she wanted to _look_ hot."

"Yes, I'm aware." She rolled her eyes in exasperation, "she wants the boys to pay attention, and given the chance she'd go about it in exactly the wrong way … Cos she's 15, and dumb ~ And God made teenaged daughters to punish their parents, more specifically their _fathers,_ for being teenaged boys once upon a time." She sniggered. "Phil looked like a cross between a deer in the headlights and a goldfish when she walked into the room wearing them."

"So anyway in the midst of me telling her Hell no! And Phil looking like a stunned goldfish, Johnny pops out of his room and says, "Mum, it's because Victoria is a tardigrade."

Of course Vic screamed at him to mind his own business, which made him cry. Then she stormed off to her room, slamming the door."

"Slamming doors, reminds me of Sam at that age, must be what all teenaged girls do, huh?"

"I never did," she answered, "and Sam is not a girl, Dean." Beside her Crowley smirked. "So, ten minutes later I hear Vic laughing, she sweeps out of her room and rushes into Johnny's room and hugs him.

She'd googled tardigrade. Turns out they're tiny microscopic creatures that can survive extreme cold. Johnny wasn't insulting his sister, he was trying to support her… in his own geeky unique way— Yes like Sam.

Didn't change the fact that the shorts were way too short of course. But it gave us all pause, in the end we compromised and I stitched some lace round the leg hems to give them an extra couple of inches so she didn't look like a prostitute, and get sent home for disrupting the boys concentration or whatever. Her friends thought they were cool, apparently. Wanted to know where she bought them… I'm pretty sure there's gonna be a spate of cut up jeans in the future, her friends parents will be cursing my name."

"If their biggest problem is their kids cuttin' on their clothes, they've got an easy life. Speakin' of seein' the future, you need another transfusion yet?"

Michele cut a glance towards Crowley and gnawed on her bottom lip. "Had one recently, I'm feeling pretty good right now…"

"Mitch? You don't _know_ that Sam's gonna be okay do ya?"

"No," she looked up and met Crowley's eyes briefly. "I just know that if both of you had gone, you both would have died… and it was your leg giving way that distracted Sam… You saw him die, Dean, then they shot you, as you were trying to get to him... I couldn't..."

Dean grunted and beside her Crowley shifted in his seat.

"So you're playin' the odds?"

"Yes Dean, I'm sorry. Sam was going no matter what, he ... needed to.

And Chuck, he said you are the firewall... the world needs you… Kelly, she might be safe from Dagon, but other things want her child. Even Crowley is freaked out by it."

Crowley turned, his baleful eyes narrowed with warning, as he gestured sharply to Chris in the back, and jerked his hand across his throat. A clear threat.

"Don't like it, but I get it Mitch. Can respect it... unless, you know..." Dean answered. "As for Cas and Kelly's kid, we'll figure it out." He sighed. "Guess I better go check up on her Ladyship… and Mom... Can't trust some people."

"Y-Yes." She stammered, staring at Crowley in apprehension as she shock her head, begging the demon with her eyes not to punish her son for her mistake.

—

Sorry this update took an age, life has been ... busy.

Thankyou to ngregory, VegasGranny, mak2018, and sparklingice66 for your reviews very appreciated. You guys and your constant support are what keep me writing. To the rest of you out there, if you are enjoying the journey, consider reviewing. It only takes a few seconds and it's the only payment I'm asking for.


	105. Chapter 105: The Truth Will Set You Free

**Chapter 105: The Truth Will Set You Free**

 **Chapter 105**

Dean Winchester hung up from his call with Mitch, and rubbed at the back of his neck with a sigh.  
He'd never admit it, but talking to her made him feel better ~ well, as better as he was gonna feel, about trusting Toni frickin' Bevell, and trying to gate-crash his Mom's brain.

He checked his messages again, feeling a little compulsive.

There was another text from Sam.

He and his merry band of hunters were 20 minutes out from British Men of Letters HQ.

No guarantees Sammy'd come home… there never were. It was just easier to ignore that when he was there in the thick of it too.

He sent a text back.  
Told Sam Toni was rigging up a way to get into Mom's head and that he'd found the signal jammer Ketch had used to stop them calling out, but no trace of Sam's wifi router and signal booster that he'd been bitching about (like a pubescent girl.)

…ooo0ooo…

Sam read his brother's message with an annoyed huff.

Dean might say _he_ whined about internet like a prepubescent girl, but when Dean worked out that no router and signal booster meant no Netflix, no YouTube and no porn, Dean was gonna be unbearable.

Their cell plans had plenty of call time and texts but not nearly enough data, they needed a decent connection and wifi.

The Lebanon Kansas library might have free wifi, but it was limited and the library was only open Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday, for like 4 hours.  
Lebanon Kansas was so small town, it was gonna be huge pain in the ass.  
He'd have to purchase a new router and signal booster ASAP.

Thinking about wifi and Data made him think of his promise to Michele.

He looked across at Jody and cleared his throat.

"Jody, Uh …. You've never been to our place." He began.

Jody tilted her head. "No, I haven't. I figured that was kinda the way you boys liked it."

"Yeah uh… well we do … kinda …you not knowing where we live _is_ safer for you and the girls…"

Jody snorted and gave him a look that spoke volumes. "Sam you're smarter than that. After the incident with 'Roderick'," she made air-quotes with one hand, "we both know there's no such thing as safe. As for the girls … Claire's pretty much allergic to safe. And I wouldn't mention this, but I _did_ just have a visit from your Mother…"

"Yeah…umm…" he looked away, reminded again of how many times Jody had nearly become a casualty because of Knowing them, like Ash, Jo and Ellen, Bobby, Kevin, Charlie… the list went on and on.

"You're right, Jody, of course you're right, guess it's time you knew where we live, huh?"

Jody smiled at him warmly and reached out a hand to pat his knee. "So, what brought this on?"

"A- a friend, she, she …" he stuttered and felt his cheeks heat, "…Dean's leg didn't get messed up in a hunt. Ketch, one of the British Men of Letters locked us in the Bunker. They shut off the air, and all our contact outside. We were suffocating in there like bugs in a jar, Jody." He cleared his throat uncomfortably again.  
"Anyway ...so Dean, he blew a hole through the wall with his grenade launcher, crawled up an old sewer pipe. He got us out."

Jody was staring at him, open mouthed, not looking at the road.

"You boys lead exciting lives, don't you?" She said finally.

"Yeah, uh, guess we do. Which brings me back to my, uhhh _our,_ friend. She kind of sees the future, and she saw what was going on. Tried to warn us. Wanted to help. But… we uhh missed her call..."

"And that got you to thinking that no one knows where you live?"

He favored Jody with a rueful smile. "Yeah sort of. So, I'd like to give you our address. You and the girls are the closest thing we have to family."

"Us, your Mom... and your friend without a name?"

He ducked his head and combed a hand through his hair restlessly.

"Uhhh no, the psychic, my friend, M-Michele she, she doesn't live round here, in America, I mean…" Jody raised an eyebrow, "so I was wondering if I could give her your contact details, an email address or something, you know, just in case we have something similar h-happen in the future." He looked at her earnestly and swallowed.

"Of course, Sam." Jody nodded decisively, he gave her a relieved smile.

"Michele was actually the one that suggested that we all quit hiding our heads in the sand and apprentice Claire to a full time, female hunter. If she's gonna to insist on hunting."

"Is that so?" Jody's voice was deceptively mild. "So this Michele, is she a hunter?"

He laughed, "No Jody, she's a Mom… and a scientist…" he shook his head to himself. "She's got a couple of teenaged girls of her own, says they all do dumb things," he picked at the seam of his jeans, then glanced up. "She says that we need to prepare them the best we can… then Uhh …pray." He ducked his head again. "She talks about how, with kids, it's better to use a safety rail at the top of the cliff instead of a ambulance at the bottom.  
I think, you'd like her."

…ooo0ooo….

Dean sat in a chair facing his mother as Toni attached electrodes to her forehead. The electrodes led to an antiquated electrical box, with dials and a green screen with wiggly lines.  
Toni had already stuck a bunch of electrodes on to him.  
The handcuffs still dangled from one of Toni's wrists, kept rapping against the table and the machine, aggravating her as she worked.

"These electrodes sync your Delta waves with Mary's forming a psychic link." Toni explained primly, "but to enter her psyche will take a certain measure of concentration and skill."  
She adjusted some knobs on the machine. "And as there's no time…" (she'd argued for more time, but he'd been determined to do it ASAP.) "to teach you how to reach the necessary therapeutic dream state, I'm banking on this." She held up a large syringe of something she'd cooked up in the lab.  
"Hypnotic agents laced with a potent sedative." She injected the liquid into Mary's neck, drawing a pained wince.  
"It's enough to knock an elephant on its trunk."

Dean watched his mother pass out.

As Toni turned and picked up the second syringe she'd prepared then uncapped it. Dean reached out and closed the handcuff dangling from Toni's wrist around the table leg.  
The handcuff keys were in a jar in the kitchen. Toni wouldn't find them while he was knocked out.

"Really?" Toni asked looking incensed.

"Little insurance. You understand." He muttered and glanced sideways at her with a smirk. He might've agreed to give her a head start if she helped him get their Mom back, to give her a chance to see her kid again, if she actually had a kid, (what kind of Mom was Toni Bevell, psycho bitch anyway?) But that didn't mean he was dumb enough to leave her wandering about unchecked while he was out, or give her a chance to do a runner if this was all just a ploy.

"This will hurt." She assured him sarcastically. " _You understand."_

Toni jabbed him in the neck with the needle and smiled sadistically as she injected the hypno-crap in extra slow, just to make a point.

Doctors always told you to count back from 10 when they put you under, Dean got as far as 10, then the world spun away.

…..

Next thing Dean knew, he 'woke,' sitting in a plush brown recliner, in a living room.

Hardwood floors, gauzy lace curtains, soft olive walls, crisp white painted skirtings. A fireplace, with a rug and one of those yellow metal dump trucks in front of it, that all little boys have at some stage. Bookshelves with nick-nacks. Lamps. An old-style phone and T.V. It looked kinda familiar.

He climbed to his feet and realized his knee wasn't screwed up anymore.

Then he remembered that this was all a dream, that he was inside his Mom's head, suddenly he recognized where he was.

This was home.

The house they'd had before Azazel burned it.

He walked through the living room and into the kitchen, stared at the oven and cream painted cabinetry, the brown Formica bench-top, and the wallpaper with the green leaves and pink and yellow flowers.  
Found himself walking towards the stairs, the stairs that haunted his nightmares… remembered carrying Sammy down them, away from the fire and the smoke… with Dad behind him, yelling for Mom.

From behind him, back the way he come, he heard a baby cry.

He turned back toward the living room and saw a large wooden crib in the middle of the room.

Sammy's crib.

He walked towards it and looked down, in the crib was a baby in a blue jumpsuit.

Sam's hazel slightly slanted eyes stared up at him smushed into an infant face. Sammy flailed chubby arms and legs and kicked off his blanket, burbling up at him in baby talk.

"Sam." He greeted the memory of his brother.

Suddenly, Mary was on the other side of the crib, bending over and smiling down at baby Sam.

"Are you awake?" She asked gently. "It's nap time, shhh shhhh." She soothed, Sammy cooed up at her, gabbling away in baby talk as she covered him with the blanket again.

Mary Winchester smiled down beatifically at his baby brother and Dean's heart hitched, he wished Sammy could see this.

Mom's hair was long again, and she was wearing the soft purple sundress with the silver heart locket, he remembered from his heaven memory.

Mary walked back into the kitchen, he followed, trying to remember Mitch's advice.

"Dean, lunch is ready." Mary called.

A child walked into the kitchen and seated himself at the kitchen table in front of the place-mat and glass of milk.

Dean stopped confused.

The kid was maybe 7, not 4, the age that'd fit with baby Sam in there.  
Way older than he'd been when Yellow Eyes killed Mom.  
The kid wasn't him - how he looked in the few photos he's seen of himself at that size.

He'd been blockier, with a bit of a podge from too much canned stuff and Dinner food, and maybe not enough vegetables.  
His ears had stuck out more, and his hair had been sun bleached blonde and choppy. H'd sported one of dad's god-awful bowl cuts back then, before dad decided that a buzz cut with the clippers was good enough for the marines and good enough for his sons.  
His face had always been dirty back then and splodged full of freckles. His clothes never really clean, always either too big or too small, thrift shop hand-me-downs.

This kid wasn't him … how he'd really been.  
This 'Dean' was how his Mom imagined he'd looked at that size.

This kid was more refined, smoother, better cared for; better looking than he'd ever been at that age.

The kid did kind of look like a kid he knew.  
This kid looked a heck of a lot like Mitch's eldest boy, Johnny. And that was just weird!  
There was a definite surface resemblance. Had Mom seen a photo of Mitch's kids at some point and thought it was a photo of him and Sam?

He'd always thought Mitch's youngest looked kinda like Sam had, similar mop of wavy hair, kinda slanted eyes and killer dimples.  
Hadn't really thought about it further, all kids looked similar at 2, right?  
But now he wondered, if that was why Mitch treated him and Sam the way she did. Was she looking at him and Sam and subconsciously seeing her boys?

He shook the thought off, and stepped closer to Mom.

"Mom.  
We gotta get out of here, okay?  
You need to come with me.  
Mom?!"

His Mother didn't respond, she simply turned away and handed the dark haired green-eyed kid a plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on it.  
It had the crusts cut off, just like from his heaven memory.  
Mary stroked a tender hand through the kids hair and smiled at him before turning away.

"Mom?" He called.  
"MOM!"

Mary continued to move about the kitchen, oblivious to his calls.

"Mom!" Dean tried again. Went over to where she stood at the kitchen bench.  
"Look, I know that they messed with your head, okay?  
I know it feels _better_ in here.  
It feels safer.  
But I-I need you to hear me." He begged, standing right up close.

Dean thought he saw a look flicker in Mary's eyes as she turned away, back towards young 'Dean' at the table.

"I was thinking maybe we should take Sammy to the park later, before Daddy gets home. Sound good?"

The boy nodded enthusiastically and smiled.

"Mom, look at me." He demanded and grabbed at her arm.

A look of irritation flashed across Mary Winchester's face as she pulled her arm out of his grasp and walked over to the oven.

Dean stared at his hand for a moment, and then across at his mother.

Mom was solid, he was solid here too.

He realized that to pull away from him like she had, to keep turning away from him… at some level she had to know he was there.

He watched his mother open the oven door and pull out a pie, stared at her blindly trying to work out what to do.

"You're choosing this." He accused.

"Your favorite." Mary singsonged to the boy at the table.

"Yes!" The kid enthused with a fist-pump.

She raised a finger with a smile. "After you eat." She admonished indulgently, and knelt down next to the boy. Again, pointedly not looking at her real son.

"I only want good things for you, Dean." She told the boy, "I'll never let anything bad happen to you."

This was a performance. A play she was performing.

Something occurred to him then, something he'd never really thought about. The heaven memory. Mom and Dad had been fighting and Dad moved out for a couple of days, in it she was wearing the same dress and locket.

He'd always blamed Dad, thought he was the one in the wrong.  
Mom had told him it was Daddy's fault, that he was being silly.

But…. They knew Mom kept hunting, she saved Asa Fox when he was like one?  
They'd never asked if or when she'd stopped Hunting.

Those fights, Dad yelling, 'where were you?' …

Was that because Mom kept disappearing, and going on hunts?

Why, with all the lore Grandpa Campbell had, all that hunter knowledge, why hadn't Mom done anything to ward the house? She knew what was out there.  
She knew Yellow Eyes was coming back in ten years.  
Mom had never been just an innocent victim, she'd known way more than Dad had. But she'd buried her head in the sand. And yeah, she'd died for it, but it was Sammy who paid, him who paid, Dad who paid.

"I hate you." The words burst out of him, as he stood there reeling under the realizations. Mitch had told him to use emotion, but he hadn't known this emotion was there, hiding under everything else, he'd kept it pushed down, deep... Because Mom had died and come back _for him_ …  
But Mitch was right, for Mom, it hadn't been about him.

"You lied to me. I was a kid!"

She had, he remembered now ,dimly. Those days he would stay with one of Mom's friends and she'd tell him it was their secret, because she was doing something... a surprise for Daddy's birthday...

Even then she left him, even then he wasn't the most important thing.

Mary turned away from him again. But he can see the pretense now, the way her shoulders are tight and high.

"You promised you'd keep me safe?" He demanded.

"You made a deal with Azazel.  
Yeah, it saved Dad's life, but I'll tell you something else that happened.  
Because on November 2nd, 1983, old Yellow Eyes came waltzing in to Sammy's room. Because of _your_ deal."

In the living room the baby cooed softly as if responding to his name.

His mother turned abruptly, walked past him, and into the living room.

Dean followed.

"You left us.  
 _Alone_."

His mother stared down at the baby.

"'Cause Dad was just a shell.  
His perfect wife? Gone!  
Our perfect Mom.  
The _perfect_ family... was gone!" His voice broke as the emotions came flooding out.

He stared down at Sam, the only one he'd ever _really_ had since Mom died. And he let himself be mad, let himself be hurt, and wounded.

"And I... I had to be... more than just a brother.  
I had to be a father, and I had to be a mother. To keep him safe." He pointed at Sam accusatively.

His life's mission, take care of your brother. While no one took care of him.  
He'd deserved more.

"And that wasn't _fair_."

Sammy had deserved so much more than what he'd been able to give.

"And I couldn't do it." He admitted brokenly. How many times had he failed Sam over the years? But somehow Sam always forgave him.

"And you wanna know what that was like?" He walked around the crib to stand in front of his mother, trying to make her face him, and what she'd done to them, but she turned her face away.

"They killed the girl that he loved." A girl that looked so much like his mother it had been like a punch in the chest the first time he saw Jess.

"He got possessed by Lucifer.  
They tortured him in Hell. And he lost his soul… _His soul!  
_ …All because of you." Dean swallowed past the raw emotion. "…All of it was because of you."

And if Sam didn't come back, if the British Men of Letters shot him, if his brains ended up splattered on that wall, if he died… that would be because of his Mother too."

"I hate you." His voice broke and tears leaked down his cheeks.  
" **I hate you** …"

But that wasn't all. If it was, this would hurt less.

"...And I love you." He admitted "'Cause I can't – I can't help it." He stumbled on over the awful truth, because that was the appalling bit, he could set out all the things she'd done and the cost to him and Sam… but he still loved her.

"You're my Mom…" he defended her and himself.

"And I understand..." He bit his lip, and thought of every horrible thing he'd done so he wouldn't lose Sam too, "'cause I've made deals to save the ones I love… More than once." And he could admit it now, that it hadn't always been about Sam, what was best for Sam.

His mother continued to look away from him. Through his tears he gazed down at baby Sammy again, and thought about what Mitch had told him.

 _Find a way to forgive._

"I forgive you." He told her simply. And huffed a breath of wonder, through the tears.

"I forgive you. For all of it- Everything." It was true, he could, despite everything. He _could_ forgive her.

"On the other side of this, we can start over, okay? You, me, Sam.  
We can get it right this time." He vowed. "But I need you to fight.  
Right now, I need you to fight.  
I need you – I need you to look at me, Mom.  
I need you to really look at me and _see_ _me_.

...Mom, I need you to _**see me!"**_ He was out of words. So sure this was the end, that his best wasn't good enough. Again.

" _Please_?"

At the word, Mary blinked and haltingly turned, a tear ran down her cheek as she looked up at him, eyes searching his face, wide in true recognition.

"Dean?" She asked softly.

"Mom!"

Behind them at the kitchen table the boy vanished.


	106. Chapter 106: Angry King

**Chapter 106: Angry King**

 **Chapter** **106**

Twenty minutes into the drive, Crowley broke through the uncomfortable silence filling the car.

"Care to tell me where we're headed, Darling?"

The woman in the driver's seat breathed a sigh. "Crowley, I'm not your Darling, and I do have a name. Would it cause you some great emotional trauma to use it?" She asked, not looking away from the road.

Apparently, the tiny threat he'd directed at her offspring, a simple reminder of their deal, to keep the Winchester's in the dark; nullified any fellow feeling he'd managed to generate with her miraculous healing.

"Nothing causes me emotional trauma, Pet." He scoffed. "Besides ma Cherie, half of your name does mean Darling. Michele Cherie, Godly Darling." He chuckled to himself, "I have to hand it to the big man, he really does pick one's with ironic names. Not that g-o-d actually _was_ a big man you understand, his most recent meat suit was shorter than I am."

"The irony of names, Crowley? The names your mother gave you mean Angry King. As for Crowley…. Did you ever meet a man called Aleister Crowley in your travels, some called him the evilest man alive, but he was also credited with saying that the problem with mystical systems was that they had no place for humor. It was invariably at other's expense, however.  
I know someone like that.  
Witty but cutting.  
You didn't always wear a literary agent out of New York did you?  
Have you ever heard that song by Ozzy Osbourne?  
Or spent time with another gentleman, by the name of Terry Pratchett?  
Have you ever sauntered vaguely downwards Crowley?  
It's a really funny thing, how Pratchett's literary agent was _also_ a man by the name of Fergus, _such_ a funny coincidence." She smiled at him bitingly. "Carver Edlund's books were written after Good Omens was published, so people assume … But see, it's really a game of which came first, isn't it, Crowley?"

He smirked at her to hide his surprise, "Well, aren't we just a curious, clever kitten."

"You're the demon who's threatening my family, of course I researched!"

Crowley eyed his pet prophet indulgently. She really was _quite_ fun; no wonder young Samantha was so taken with her.

And then there was Dean. Squirrel was a hard mark, Crowley had been working on him for years. All the things he'd done for him, all the things they'd shared, and _still_ Dean kept his guard up.  
But he could see it, with just a tiny smidge of work Dean could be eating out of the palm of her hand. He felt a little resentment over that, of course he did.

But a man (or demon) could resent that he wasn't able to sing as sweetly as a songbird, or he could put it in a cage to sing at his pleasure.  
Her writing was one thing, but to watch her burrow under the elder Winchester's armour in person, that had been scrumptious!

…If his crossroads staff had an ounce of the leading and guiding she showed in that phone-call… well, it would keep the home fires burning.

"Your devotion is rather touching. Though you know, I'm not the only one with a name set in song."

He cleared his throat.

" _Michelle, ma belle.  
_ _These are words that go together well.  
_ _My Michelle.  
_ _Michelle, ma belle  
_ _Sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble.  
_ _Tres bien ensemble."_ He sang the words of the Beetles song mockingly at her, and watched with delight as her cheeks flushed, apparently Dean wasn't the only one with the ability to make her blush.

"I hate that song." She muttered sullenly, without looking at him, "a boy at school used to sing it at me all the time, to tease me."

"Maybe he had a crush." He suggested.  
"I think you know by now,  
I'll get to you somehow." He continued, speaking the words from the song gruffly.  
"Until I do, I'm telling you,  
so you'll understand…"

He reached across suddenly, pinning her hand to the steering wheel, and bellowed, " **We need to find that bloody Nephilim!"** next to her ear.  
She jumped and squeaked in fear. Would have swerved the vehicle if he hadn't stayed its course.

After a moment of silence, he took his hand away.

"Jack," she said through clenched teeth, trying not to show her fear. But her breathing and the blood pounding away, affrettando in her carotid artery, gave her away.  
"Kelly has named her child Jack, which means God is gracious, by the way."

"You've been holding out on me. Naughty, naughty kitten." He purred, "Might I remind you, you have four children, that's a sum total of 80 digits I could carve off the little darlings."

He watched her gulp and look into the rear vision mirror at the nipper in the back seat, eyes wide in worry.

"I haven't been holding out on you, I haven't finished writing the chapter! Here. It's the most recent word document. If you're so clever, you figure out where they are. I can't."  
She grabbed up her phone and tossed it in his lap.

He opened the word document and read through what was written.

"Feathers has grown attached, that's hardly advisable." He commented mildly once he'd finished.

She really should know better than to just hand her phone over to people. He made note of her account details, added some songs to her favourite songs folder, fiddled with a some of the phones settings, and programmed his number into the phone.

"Either way, if that child is born, that woman's going to die."

"Kelly." She pouted at him, "Her name is Kelly Kline, not that woman. She is _Jack Kline's_ Mother. And she's choosing to die for her son. 'No greater love has a person than this, that they lay down their life'…"

"Yes, yes, insert biblical reference here. Blah, blah blah." He replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"God is love Crowley, that's what you don't understand." She argued. Another useless attempt at proselytising him.

He wondered if she thought she was earning brownie points, or whether she was just that indoctrinated.

"It says in the bible that everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. That perfect love drives out fear, that's why Kelly is okay with dying, because she loves her son."

He sighed long sufferingly and began reading through her text messages, considered sending a few out. Pointedly ignored her little sermon.

"…And yes, Castiel is growing to love Kelly too, of course he is. You've called him the Winchester's love slave, you might mean it in a derogatory way, but it's true, he does love Sam and Dean. It was because he loved them that he chose to go against the rule of heaven, his whole family, and do the things that God actually approved of. That's why God kept bringing him back."

"So, you think God is going to bring Kelly Kline back?" He asked.

"No…and I don't think God will bring me back either, if you're wondering."

The corners of her mouth pulled in and her lips bowed in a vulnerable curve.

"I've _always_ sort of felt like I was living on borrowed time, that I had to make every day count.  
Guess that came from a bunch of angels infecting me with something that makes normal people explode, when I was a baby, huh?"

He rolled his eyes in reply, he'd made a prophet explode too, it wasn't that impressive. Maybe he ought to remind her of that. But no, mustn't frighten the song bird, too much, he needed her to sing for him.

"I'm on a slow burning fuse; like you said, what you did won't last. But I have today." She continued, smiled at him winsomely, almost like they were friends "and if you really can't take it back, then I'm going to use it the best way I know how." She flicked on her turn signal and piloted the vehicle off the road and into a carpark. Parked, then got out.

Crowley followed suit.

He looked around and realised they were at a small playground close to the ocean.

"This is the best way you know how?" He asked incredulously. "The psychopath that took my throne wants that child. Jack. Believe me, if you thought Dagon was bad. He's a million times, a _trillion_ times worse! Surely, you can't really be this stupid?!"

"Crowley, you read the chapter, that's what I have. Unless you can somehow search for a room with an apple tree painted on the wall… none of my visions had any details that get us any closer." He noted the 'us' with satisfaction. "If the plastic bag had had a store logo maybe... But it didn't." So she was thinking, good.

 _Now to introduce some doubt._

"You seem to think Castiel is trust worthy. Might I remind you of what he did when he sucked up all those souls from purgatory. He might have cured a few lepers, but he broke ol' Moosey's wall to do it and believe me _that_ wasn't pretty, or loving.  
Cassie also decided he was the new God, remember? He massacred more angels and humans than I ever have!"

The little prophet looked pained but didn't argue.

"You talk about him loving Kelly and the Winchester's. But he's willing to sacrifice Kelly's life, he betrayed the boys trust. Stole the Colt, went after Kelly alone, things that were at a minimum short sighted and quite frankly stupid!

Now ask yourself why Castiel wouldn't even consider syphoning off the Nephilim's grace. Can you be _sure_ it's not all about the power, _again_?  
Castiel took off with Kelly, and _just left Moose and Squirrel lying in the dirt, unprotected_ , without so much as a backward glance. He practically gift-wrapped them, and offered them on a plate to anything that wants them out of the picture. _Believe me_ Kitten, that's a long list!  
Doesn't _any_ of that indicate to you that the angels motives are a trifle mixed? Or that some of his marbles are loose. Maybe, that the bleeding Angel of Thursday isn't the best pick of responsible adults you could ask to raise the kind of child that can destroy the effing universe!"

He tossed her phone back into her hands in disgust.

Michele turned away from him and busied herself unstrapping her own child from it's car seat. Led it to the playground silently, following it closely up the steps of a piece of play equipment shaped like a pirate ship. The woman pointedly refused to answer all his arguments.

"It's pirate Chris," she enthused, sounding brittle, "off to sail the seven seas, in search of riches and adventure!"  
The child chortled excitedly.

Crowley watched this with his hands shoved in his pockets, glared at the duo in irritation. He felt his frustration rising higher with every moment mother and child played their moronic make-believe game of pirate adventures.

They didn't have time for this. Hadn't she heard any of what he'd just said?

Finally, the boy left off the game, climbed down from the ship and dashed towards where he stood.

It burbled some sort of incomprehensible inquiry at him.

The woman caught her son's hand and pulled him back. "No Chris, uhhh, Captain Scarface Claw doesn't want to play just now… Captains need to be stern and imposing." The child pouted up at him and wrinkled its nose, just like its mother was wont to do when vexed.

"Garr 'ace 'aww ayyy! Garr 'ace 'aww 'addd!"

The prophet sighed and tilted her head to study him.

"Maybe he _is_ kind of sad." she murmured, "I don't know, I don't know if he's ever had a chance to play honey."

"Ohhhh, I play!" He sneered at her. "Only last night I shot up with some excellent red, had a ménage à trois with a matched set of redheads, sampled the best food, drink, and drugs this god forsaken, backwoods, blip of an island has to offer."

He hoped to shock her church mouse sensibilities, shut her up. But she simply tilted her head to one side again and sighed in a way that said she was unconvinced by his list of shenanigans.

"I play!" He flared again defensively.

"But it doesn't make you happy.  
I was with you on your throne, Crowley. I looked out at the sea of your subjects with you, none of it even gave you satisfaction. You're just going through the motions. The worst kind of liar is the one that lies to himself."

"I'm a demon you little twit, I'm not supposed to be _happy_!" He snarled in annoyance, "you want to talk about liars? You're soo against killing babies? Then why did you work at that hospital laboratory, doing the testing that allowed all those women to do just that, hmmm kitten?"

Her stunned green eyes met his for one shocked moment before she swooped her infant up into her arms, and turned away from him burying her face in the child's curly mop as if to block out his accusations.

That shut her up.

"I research too Pet." He crooned stepping closer. "Mummy is an accessory to infanticide Moppet. The blood of _all those babies_ on her hands…"

He waited a moment, let it hang in the air for long enough for the woman's habitual guilt to really sink it's claws in.

 _Keep her off balance, twist the knife, then offer sympathy._

He reached out and laid a hand on her back. She flinched away from him, shrugging it off, but he placed it back again, holding her still with a thread of power.

"You didn't really know what you were doing, did you?" He asked in a softer, understanding tone, "you were young.

But, sometimes Michele…" He stroked his hand over her hair and down her back soothingly, offering her the façade of kindness and understanding, an absolution she wouldn't willingly give herself, "…sometimes a child needs to die, ma Cherie. We are talking about saving the world, your own children included, you need to see that."

He felt her shoulders slump.

 _Yes,_ he rejoiced silently, _progress, finally._

"But maybe there is a way…" he mused, sounding like he was only just now considering it.

"I still have money, resources, maybe there is a way that neither Kelly Kline or the child have to die…. How about we go with Moose and Squirrel's plan? Add in a bit of surgery in a nice quiet clinic in China, we can pop Mz Kline open, and siphon off the child's grace enough to defuse the little A-bomb before birth.

Maybe we _can_ save Kelly." He rubbed his chin and made a show of pondering it.

"I may have been ousted from my throne, but I still have power and influence. I know the enemy, who better to help protect wee baby Jack from the scurrilous villains of the world. With Castiel's help, of course… We can balance out each other's excesses, we've worked together before, as you are no doubt aware.

And if perchance the mother doesn't make it ~ despite our best efforts… Well… The child likes and trusts you… you're a good mother.

I heard it myself, when you were on the phone to Dean... Who better to teach it humanity and goodness, to show a mother's care. With the resources I have to smooth the way …what's another child, when you already have four, am I right?"

He turned her around to face him, the tyke clutched in her arms between them. He ran the back of his hand down her cheek, and looked down into her green eyes giving her his most earnest smile.

"If you help, if we all work together… _maybe_ we can save Kelly, save her child. Please ma Cherie."

She shuddered under his hands and he thought he had convinced her to capitulate.

Instead, her head jerked back, and gold light flooded her eyes, then she collapsed limply into his grasp.

"Bollocks!" He muttered catching mother and child, watched the blood start running down her face.

"Left holding the baby again, eh Moppet?"

He lifted both mother and child into his arms awkwardly, made his way over to a nearby picnic table.

"This time I came prepared." He announced, laying out the mother. Drew a lollipop and the story book out of his coat pockets.

"Want some candy little boy?" he chuckled amused at the irony of it, unwrapped the sweet and handed it off to the child. Smeared his fingers through the blood on it's mother's face, then sucked them clean with a satisfied smack of his lips.

"What Mummy doesn't know won't hurt her, eh Moppet?" He chuckled in delight..  
"Now…" he breathed out a long breath of pleasure, as the blood worked it's way through his senses, "I myself am quite fond of the one called 'Slinky Malinki Opens the Door.'" He informed the child.  
"If you imagine Slinky and Stickybeak Sid as the brothers Winchester, you can envision it as a tale of their childhood abandonment at the hands of John Winchester."

The demon began reading the story book.

…

Not long after, the prophet gasped for breath and scrambled to sit up, pushing hair out of her face and smearing blood around with her palms.

He tossed her another of his handkerchiefs without looking up from the book, didn't pause his reading, simply gave her time to clean up and collect herself.

Closing the book he eyed her critically.

"Couldn't even wait a day, to start undoing my hard work eh, Poppet." He tutted.

One corner of her mouth twitched as she crumpled his handkerchief in her hands, she nodded fractionally.

He took the handkerchief back and stuffed it into a pocket - for later.

For a moment she looked like she was going to argue the confiscation, then shook her head abortedly and sighed.

"You gave him a lollipop and read him a story?"

He shrugged. "Don't all bad men offer wee unsupervised children sweeties?" He grinned at her widely. "Besides, reading aloud to a child increases their language acquisition and brain development, your doaty wee tike needs all the help it can get."

She looked at him askance "You've got my blood on your teeth."

He swiped his tongue over his teeth and smiled at her, shrugged his shoulders self-effaceively.

"You weren't using it. I did pay for it you know. Now, do tell, what did you see Kitten?"

"It wasn't Cas, Kelly or Jack." She answered guardedly, pretty green eyes wary.

He levelled a stern uncle glare. "Maybe Moppet and I could play this little piggy…" he suggested mildly.

At the implication she gathered her child up into her arms and grimaced at him. Hunching her shoulders she lifted her chin and looked at him, all torn and uncertain.

He waited.

"Dean went into his mother's head. He …" another flash of uncertainty crossed her face, "got her to see him… B-but somehow Ketch, one of the British Men of Letters, was in the bunker. He k-killed Toni Bevell. T-then, he and Dean fought." She shuddered. "I thought Ketch was going to kill him. B-but Mary woke up. She shot Ketch.

Things… things were kind of choppy.

Sam, Jody and a group of hunters were attacking the Men of Letters compound… So many people d-died. It's not like in the movies. It was…" Her lips quivered. "But Sam's okay…." She breathed, "he must be, the last image I got was of Sam, Mary and Dean hugging."

He smiled encouragingly at the news. "Well, well. So Dean deprogrammed Mother Winchester. And Samantha and Co. cleaned out the rats nest? I suppose that means that British harpy, Hess, has taken a reaper ride down below." He chuckled good naturedly. "Say what you will, when it comes to tossing a spanner in the works of carefully laid plans, Moose and Squirrel rein supreme."

The prophet blinked at him, opened her mouth to say something then shut it again. Slipped off the picnic table with her son and began to walk down the path.

Crowley followed after, noting with distaste that she was heading closer to the ocean, aware of every step closer to the salt laden water.

Of course that must be the point, she was trying to get rid of him. But he was stronger than that, had long ago made pain his friend, wouldn't give her the satisfaction of turning tail.

Ahead the mother and son crossed the sand and made their way down to the water's edge. The child gabbling away excitedly picking up stones and shells. The mother crouched down beside him, fully engaged in sharing each new discovery, echoing the child's pleasure and imparting small explanations about the items found. She reacted as if each new piece of ocean trash the child found for her perusal was some kind of marvel.

Through his mounting discomfort brought on by all the microscopic crystals of salt hidden in sand beneath his Italian shoes. (Salt traces that jabbed away at his demonic senses like broken glass,) Crowley watched the mother and son and felt… envy.

The child was a moron, and clumsy to boot. It wasn't her favourite, she had three others. The older boy was more attractive and more intelligent, might even border on gifted. Both of the twins were attractive, popular and successful. Meanwhile _this_ child was an argument for eugenics, couldn't string a comprehensive sentence together or climb steps without supervision. It was a waste of resources. Yet the woman treated it like it could juggle and sing opera; she didn't belittle or treat it as though she deemed it less worthy than its siblings.

Crowley snorted in derision, that kind of child raising encouraged weakness, one day the child would hit the real world, and it was in for a shock!

The prophet looked away from the child, over her shoulder to him and smiled almost encouragingly, waved a hand and gestured him closer.

He took a another step towards her, closer to the damp sand and gritted his teeth, watched as she wrote the child's name in the sand with a stick, then 'Mummy' then most incredulous of all... 'Crowley.' The prophet looked up over her shoulder again and grinned, gestured him nearer again. He shook his head and crossed his arms, he couldn't go any closer, there was too much salt.

"This is why expensive designer suits are no fun." She laughed in response. "When was the last time you got dirty and didn't care?"

He scowled back at her, and considered reminding her of his play date with Chirone, but found he was reluctant to soil the moment. Instead tilted his head back and surveyed the blue sky and breathed the stingingly fresh air.

Mother and son began decorating the names with seaweed, shells and stones. Crowley let the sould of their voices and the waves wash over him.

Watched the tike pick up something from the very edge of the water and gabble to it's mother excitedly. Michele looked down at whatever it was, then over her shoulder at him again, frowned and shrugged.

"Yes, okay," She answered the child and tusseled a hand through it's curls.

The boy walked solemnly over the sand towards him while the prophet stood where she was, hands on her hips, face speculative.

The tot trundled closer and looked up at him, nose scrunched up.

"Garr 'ace 'aww." It announced imperiously and tugged his hand out of his pocket by his coat sleeve, then deposited something into his hand.

He looked down in shock at the thing that sent a spike of agony shooting up his arm, and now laid smoking in his palm.

…ooo0ooo…

Chris picked up a shell out the tiny wavelets at the edge of the sea, held it up.

"Garr 'ace 'aww." He queried waved a sandy paw up the beach at the stoic demon that stood watching, hands in pockets, impeccably attired in his fancy black suit, eyeballing them disdainfully.

Crowley obviously thought she and Chris and their morning at the beach were beneath his notice, an affront to his stylish suit and status.

But without him she'd probably be wasting another pointless day at the doctors or hospital.

Crowley had given her this, a day of being the kind mother she wanted to be on one of the last warm days before the winter wind and rain set in.

A chance for Chris to build a memory, one he might be able to hold... after she was gone.

A memory of a mother who loved him.

Crowley had done a good thing for her and her family, even if he'd done in the wrong way.

The King of Hell was such a contradication, one minute he gave Chris a lollipop and read him a story, (he could have done _anything_ , but she woke up to him reading a story?!) the next he obliquely threatened to cut off her sons toes.

What was the truth and what was the lie?

She couldn't help thinking, Chris might be right. Every so often she caught a glimpse of something…. Sad in the demons eyes.

One of her reviewers had likened him to a stray cat, he kept hanging round seemingly longing for someone to care, but if you tried he was all hissing aggravation and claws. Just like Scarface Claw from the story books. Except Scarface had a home... Crowley didn't even have Hell anymore. What must that be like to be so incredibly cut adrift.

" Garr 'ace 'aww. 'ive Garr 'ace 'aww." Chris said again more sharply and she realised that Chris wanted to give the shell to Crowley as a gift. Her heart did a small flipflop at the sweet impulses of her little boy's heart.

She looked up the beach again.

"Yes, okay." She agreed and tusseled Chris's curly hair. Watched her son approach, tug Crowley's hand and deposit the gift.

Crowley yelped and grimaced and then steam started pouring from his hand.

"Shit!"

She was up the beach and between the motionless demon and her son in an instant.

Swiped the shell out of Crowley's hand and picked up Chris in one motion, dragged both back to the playground and held Crowley's hand under the water fountain, scrubbing at his palm.

"How could I forget that salt hurts you! Hell Crowley! I'm so sorry, are you all right? Stupid, so stupid, I should have thought!" She bit her lip and stared up at him with welling eyes.

He just stared at her looking shocked.

She examined his palm anxiously and brushed worried fingers over the unmarked skin of his palm, "seasalt hurts you, the real you? What can I do to make it better?"

Crowley stirred and pulled his hand out of her grasp frowning. "It's fine," he muttered.

"No it's not, why didn't you say anything. Salt, salt water, I shouldn't have brought you to the beach! I'm such an idiot, I should have thought! I would never brought you here if I'd known."

Crowley looked down at her with his brows beetled. "You wouldn't?" He asked looking confused.

"No, of course I wouldn't!" She huffed. "And I definitely wouldn't have let Chris give you something dipped in sea water if I'd thought about it. Seriously why would anyone do that?"

"I'm a demon," he muttered.

"Yeah okay, so what? Doesn't that mean you've been tortured enough."

He didn't answer, just stared at her like she was speaking Swahili.

Michele sighed. "Come on your majesty let's go somewhere else."

"I didn't even see it." He muttered looking bizarrely woeful.

"What? Oh, it was just a shell Crowley."

He drew his lips up in a fake smile and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Looked for all the world like a little kid trying to pretend not to be disappointed. It clutched at her heart, sea shells weren't a big part of a demon's life, she guessed.

"Okay," she sighed, "you stay here, I'll be right back."

She ran back to the beach with Chris on her hip, looked around and picked up Crowley's shell from where it had fallen. Walked back to the water fountain and scrubbed it thoroughly, until she 100% sure it was clean and wouldn't burn him.

Held it out.

The demon took the shell from her hand, stared at it a moment, frowning.

Opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Worked his jaw, then slid the shell into his coat pocket silently, with a nod.

Then vanished.

...

A/N: Aleister Crowley was an English occultist born in 1875, and was described as the most evil man alive by some. He was also credited with a sense of humour, an interest in sex magic and mountaineering.

There was also a song called Mr Crowley by Ozzy Ozbourn.

Aleister Crowley's picture appears on the Albumn of cover of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club, by the Beatles. The Beatles also sung a song starring my name, that many people, including a certain boy, have used to torment me.

Mr Pratchett was the co-writer of the book Good Omens, it does have a demon named Crowley which resembles spn's Crowley in some respects, he also had a Scottish literary agent man by the name of Fergus. Sir Terry Pratchett died in March 2015, of Alzheimer's disease after gifting the world more than 41 marvellously funny books.

Please review, don't you think I deserve a cookie for all the research?

Pretty, pretty please.


	107. Chapter 107: Taking Out the Pillars

**Chapter 107: Taking out the Pillars**

 **Chapter 107**

The woman, Doctor Hess; Toni Bevell said she was the key. The others, were mainly just black clad mercenaries, hired cannon fodder.

Hess was one of the British Men of Letters elders, one of the pillars of the organisation. If they were serious about making the British Men of Letters give up their bid to control America, she was the one they needed to take out.

According to Toni, Hess had been the one to give the order to liquidate Mick Davies.

Sam had liked Mick.

Toni had warned them all Hess was deadly. But it was hard to repress the instinctive reaction towards a tastefully dressed woman in her late 50's, one that looked like she could be on her way to church.

She'd killed Jerry before any of them could react.

Snapped his neck like a twig. Elbowed Jody in the face.

And now she was holed up in a locked room, doing who knows what.

Walt looked to him, and he nodded in response to the question of whether to blow the door. It was a bizarre thing that small look, the request for permission.

He'd always been John Winchester's youngest or Dean's brother. The follower not the leader.

But here, now, they all look at him as if he is a leader, even Jody.

It makes him sick to his stomach, he never wanted to be in charge, to lead.

But that's what'd got him here.

Giving over his authority, wanting someone bigger to choose his course, because it was easier and sat easier on his conscience.

Sam watched Walt set the explosives to blow the door out of the corner of his eye, while he and Jody watched the hallways, guns drawn.

Elsewhere in the compound the sounds of gunfire had ceased.

Sam hoped that was a sign that it was the Men of Letters that were dead, not all the other Hunters.

How many of the hunters that he convinced to follow him on this mission were dead?

Roy, Jerry, Sid… Sid who had died before they even got in the building.

They hadn't seen Ketch yet, Sam hoped one of the other Hunters had killed him. Maybe Ketch was in the room with Hess, he could hear the muffled sounds of two voices coming from within.

"Okay?" Walt asked, Sam gave another nod.

They all took a few steps back and Walt blew the door.

They surged into the room.

Hess was alone, there were no other exits.

The woman lunged for a gun.

"Don't! Don't." He barked harshly and she aborted, raising her hands, stepped half a step away from the gun.

"Listen, Dean –" She began.

"It's Sam." He felt a flare of irritation at Hess' assumption.

' _Always the child in the equation.'_ Michele had said, he was the one everyone discounted.

Sam gritted his teeth. Not any more.

"And you must be Hess, I trust.

You're in charge of this whole operation?

Or, uh, what's left of it?" He finished disparagingly and gave the woman a cynical humourless smile.

"Sam, you might think it in your best interest to kill me, to end all of this here."

He hummed in agreement and shrugged one shoulder.

"But shooting me now, severing all ties with the British Men of Letters, at this particular moment, that would be a grievous mistake."

"I doubt it." He bit out thinking of all the damage these people had done to his family.

"There are reasons to reconsider." Hess argued raising her hands further, and took a step forward.

"…Things that you don't know." She picked up a file folder off the desk between them and tossed it across the desk, before stepping back once more.

Sam flipped opened the file, saw a pile of photos. There was a man in the photos, the same man in all of them..

A man that should have been dead long ago.

The date stamp on the photos was only a few days old.

It couldn't be!

"What are these?" He demanded.

"Lucifer is back."

Sam sucked a breath of horror at the words and Hess smiled coldly.

"Yes, Sam. All thanks to your good friend Crowley.

Not that it did him much good."

Sam found his eyes drawn back to the photos. Flashes of his time in the cage, seemed to clamour and shift just beneath the surface of the glossy prints.

Those blue eyes and spiked blonde hair, the face of Nick, once all American family guy.

Lucifer had fallen back on the image of his previous vessel more often than not while tormenting him in the cage for a Millenia.

The face was easy to recognise, even in black and white.

"Crowley's dead." Hess added scornfully.

Sam looked up again in disbelief.

"And the Devil is out looking for his son, following in its mother's footsteps, tracking her and your friend the angel."

Sam felt his gorge rise and his heart begin to hammer, he didn't want to believe this woman, but he did. Because that was Winchester luck wasnt it?

It was suddenly very hard to breath.

"If Lucifer gets his hands on that child, they'll be unstoppable." Hess smirked.

"You can't face that alone. You need us."

"Listen to her, boy." A voice came from the computer monitor suddenly, making him jump.

Crowley had brought Lucifer back? And now Crowley was dead?

It didn't make sense, Why would Crowley bring Lucifer back, after everything?

Was Hess right? Did they need the Men of Letters?

His head filled with terror and indecision. What would Dean do in his place? He closed his eyes trying to step back from a full blown panic attack. Took a breath.

' _Listen to her, boy'_

 _boy,_

 _boy_

 _Boy._

Dean wouldn't be standing here listening to Hess.

Even _Michele_ wouldn't, she'd say you had to look at a person's actions.

 _Boy._

 _Boy,_

 _boy._

"Pass." He put a bullet through the computer.

"You bastard." Hess spat and grabbed the gun off the table, lifted it—

Jody reacted quicker than he did, pulled the trigger. Shot Hess through the temple. Hess' head punched back against the wall, her body slid down the wall leaving a trail of blood and brain matter in its wake.

Later, after they had made sure all the British Men of Letters were dead or fled, had stripped everything of value from the facility and sabotaged the rest. Collected their dead and salted and doused the Men of Letters corpses in gasoline.

Set explosives and a timer.

It occurred to him….

Lucifer had to of been the blonde man, the one Michele had seen with Crowley all those times.

They'd been warned.

And he hadn't listened.


	108. Ch 108: Pictures Worth a Thousand Words

**Chapter 108** **: Pictures Worth a Thousand Words**

 **Chapter 108**

Josephine MacGoff sat in a business class seat of a United Airlines flight and fumed.

It was beyond typical, that Doctor Hess had sent her off to dispose of some third rate psychic, right before the announcement of the full on strike against the remaining American hunters.

Simon, that bespectacled little git from the tech team, had texted her to rub it in. A petty revenge for turning him down when he asked her out on that date, no doubt.

Here she was stuck in a plane flying 35,000 feet above the Pacific Ocean, while everyone else from the American task force was off hogging the glory.

She could hear it now, "you were on the American task force, Jos' are their hunters as tough as they say?" And she'd go bright red, forced to admit that she didn't know, because while she'd put her entire life in Britain on hold to join the American task force; Doctor Hess had sent her on a clean up job, to a stupid British Colony, while all the real excitement went on behind her.

People would think less of her for not being part of the action, think she was a coward, or that she'd volunteered for the easy assignment to avoid the action. It was so unfair!

It wasn't like she could do anything but follow orders, when Doctor Hess told you to do something you did it. Even Arthur Ketch followed orders, and he was the scariest person Josephine had ever met.

You _had_ to follow orders, it was the first lesson you learned at Kendrick's, you follow the code and that's how it is and always will be. If you didn't everyone knew what happened.

Josephine didn't have to like it, though.

She slid open the envelope and stared resentfully at the photo of the psychic that was her target, wondering why the Men of Letters were bothering to liquidate a psychic in a country they didn't even have a presence in.

Things were changing, the old ways of just observing and recording, occasionally using the local hunter population as a resource to keep supernatural threats at bay, had been challenged.

That was why they were taking the American situation in hand; far too late in Josephine MacGoff's opinion. Just like Lady Bevell had argued, often and loudly, 'Those who have the privilege to know, have the duty to act,' by any means necessary. The American situation had been allowed to rot and fester unchecked for far too long. Time and time again, that rot had threatened the rest of the known world.

Josephine tapped her manicured fingernails against the edge of the photograph. Hess had made it sound like the job was important, a loose end that was part of the American situation; maybe this wasn't a slight after all? Maybe it was a test.

Hess was known for testing candidates she intended to put forth for advancement.

If it was a test, how difficult could it be to put a bullet into the brain of a middle aged housewife-psychic from New Zealand?

…ooo0ooo…

Crowley ground his teeth and surveyed the small one bedroom flat. The residence Gavin had never returned to because Sam and Dean Winchester had convinced him to travel back in time, board a ship destined to sink, and die. Simply to stop the vengeful spirit of his old girlfriend.

Gavin had always been a moron, he took after his numbskull mother; a tailor's daughter daft enough to think she was in love with a nothing, nobody from the workhouse.

Love had killed Gavin's mother on the birthing bed, and Gavin himself on that benighted ship, Crowley had found himself powerless to stop either demise.

He told himself he didn't care, that his outrage over Gavin's death was an act, ammunition to hold over the Winchester's heads. Proof that they weren't the arbiters of everything good as they and their little prophet believed.

Why had he come here, to Gavin's flat, now, after all these months?

Once, Gavin might have listened to him boast of his prowess in manipulation, or heard him vent his frustrations, Gavin would have made those whittering commiserating sounds in response to the things he couldn't comprehend.

Visiting his mortal, powerless son had always given him a smug feeling of superiority.

But Gavin and his almost bovine acceptance were gone— Off to heaven and beyond Crowley's reach. Leaving a strange uncomfortable hole in his wake, like when one lost a tooth.

Crowley told himself he didn't care, and good riddance.

Gavin was off in heaven, endlessly replaying old memories, like all the milk sop imbeciles.

Most likely, Gavin would have found himself summarily separated from the stupid wench he'd gone to all the trouble of dying for. It had been a fools bargain.

(" _The former things will not be remembered, nor will they come to mind._

 _That's the big picture Crowley. The status quo of Heaven and Hell now… it's just a holding tank, until after that final judgement…")_

Crowley rolled his shoulders and took a breath that hissed between lips still tingling from the taste of the prophet's blood; tried to shake her words from his memory.

He'd come to Gavin's shoebox of a flat for a break, to be free of the bloody woman's endless sermonising and sentimentality. Not to stand around thinking about her half baked, uninformed, suppositions.

Kevin Tran hadn't spouted religious portents of some final judgement— there was no reason to believe she had any kind of clue. About anything.

He was besieged by sentimental brainwashed idiots, all exploited by the heaven squad into believing in the illusion that doing 'the right thing' led to some kind of eternal reward.

Doing the right thing inevitably got you screwed over, you had to look out for number one.

The demon sneered, shoving his hands into his pockets. He encountered the sea shell there, and jerked his hand away from it, as if he'd been burned by something worse than salt; the sense memory, of small warm fingers smoothing over the palm of his meat suits hand assailed him disturbingly.

He strode four steps to the kitchen cabinets and withdrew the bottle of Craig and lead crystal tumbler; they were right where he'd left them, on one of his previous visitations.

Crowley poured himself a generous glass of whiskey and took a long mouthful.

Gavin had never touched them, he knew better.

He rolled the liquor around in his mouth, the whiskey had more nuance to it since he'd begun his blood habit again.

On the down side, he was also more aware of the rancid smell that permeated the air, whether it came from the refrigerator or the murky fetid goldfish bowl on the otherwise pristine countertop, he had no desire or urge to investigate.

Gavin had called the fish Fiona, Crowley remembered now; that had been the name of the bint, for whom he had thrown his life away.

The fish must have starved to death months ago, was now on its way to becoming an unsavoury low-tide stew of decomposition; there was a satisfaction to that.

A number of house plants adorned the window sills, desiccated to little more than brown skeletons, their fallen leaves were the only disorder in the otherwise shipshape space.

A leaf crunched underfoot as Crowley turn away from the insignificant deaths of pisces and flora, and made his way into Gavin's bedroom. A room he'd never entered on previous visitations.

Like all the other spaces, this room was neat and spare.

A colourful patchwork quilt covered the single bed and a mat made of knotted and woven rope took up much of the floor space.

A handful of thick volumes on American and Scottish history sat on the book shelf.

The demon opened the built-in closet and peered into its depths, it contained only the clothes Gavin had arrived in the future wearing, hung beside two cheap, cobalt blue, polyester vests, one with a small name badge affixed; part of the uniform for Gavin's subsistence job at the gas-n-sip.

Crowley had found it impossible to understand Gavin's complacent acceptance of that job, and his living conditions.

Yes, the modern world was a vast improvement on the squalor of 17th Century Scotland. But why had Gavin never desired more? Why had he been so completely without drive to obtain greater power and wealth, after his arrival?

The King of Hell had failed to fathom it.

Now he never would.

The boy had been the illiterate son of an unsuccessful tailor, he had attained a high position on the merchant ship; and yet in the three years since Abaddon transported him to 2014, Gavin hadn't made a single effort to become anything more.

Crowley turned back towards the bed, stopped and stared.

A matched set of pencil sketches under glass, sat beside the narrow single bed.

With a low growl, the fallen ruler slashed a hand through the air, angrily sweeping the frames to the floor with a surge of power, and stomped down, grinding the glass under the heel of his expensive leather shoes.

Minutely detailed in graphite, the plain broad face of a woman stared up at him accusingly from the carnage. Beside it, the portrait of his meat-suit stared back at him, looking unruffled and amused, surrounded as it was by the chaos of shattered glass.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and ran a restless hand through his hair; all through cleaning up the bunker and dealing with Toni and Ketch's bodies, he'd kept this moment at arms length. Through checking on Dean's leg, getting cleaned up, and choking down some form of food that he now couldn't identify in a police a line up, he'd kept himself from thinking about it.

But now, he had the manila folder in hand, inside lurked the photos, the ones he had to show Dean.

He _had_ to tell Dean and Mom what he'd learned from Hess.

But ohhh, he didn't want to!

Until he told Dean, and saw the knowledge reflected back at him from his brother's eyes, it wouldn't be really real.

Sam followed the sound of voices.

Dean and Mom were in the library. Dean tidying still, gathering up the ingredients from the Abrogation ritual in that absent minded way he had, as he asked Mom why scrubbing dried blood off stuff had to be such a pain in the ass.

"Bloods not so bad," Mom answered easily, shaking her head, "motor oil on light colored carpet, that's worse. John spilled some in our bedroom. I could never get ithe stain out. I made your father rearrange the whole bedroom just to hide it…" Mary turned her head, "Oh, hi Sam."

"Hey, Mom, Dean. Uh I need… I uh …" Dean looked up from the abrogation ritual detritus sharply.

"What's goin' on Sam?"

Sam pulled up a chair and let the folder of photographs fall to the table, Mom drew out the chair beside it and sat next to him, her eyes anxious.

"Sam?" She queried softly, reached out a hand to him. But it stopped before she made contact and he felt it's warmth, the distance between them, once again to wide for her to span.

"H-Hess," He stammered looking down at the folder, "she, she told us something before she went for her gun, before Jody shot her… s-she said," he swallowed. "T-that L-Lucifer's back."

He opened the Manila folder and picked up a black and white photograph of Lucifer, held it up for Dean to see, watched his brother's eyes widen … then looked away and down at the photograph itself as he haltingly told his family what Hess had said.

When he looked up again, Dean met his eyes fleetingly, finally left off his gimpy pacing.

"Okay, let me just get this straight. So... we beat the Brits, we kicked their psycho, tea-swilling asses." Dean gestured angrily, accusing the world at large. "And instead of popping champagne and headin' to Vegas, we get _Lucifer_." Dean mouth tightened in bitterness as he leaned heavily on the back of one of the library chairs. Sam wished with everything he had he could laugh and say he'd just been yanking Dean's chain.

"And you're sure it's him?" Mom asked.

"Yeah. That's his old vessel, too." Sam looked down at the black and white reproduction in front of him, wondering where the building was, how far away it was from where he sat now, and felt his throat tighten.

His eyes lingered on the set of those shoulders, the unblemished face and spiked blonde hair, the barely glimpsed wedding band on the vessels hand. Wondered again numbly why Lucifer's old vessel wasn't a burned out husk.

He remembered all those times he'd brushed Michele off about the blonde man Crowley was holding prisoner, how passionately she'd insisted it was important, thought about clueing Dean in on what he'd realise. But couldn't bring himself to admit it in front of their Mom, to say how they should have known this was coming. Felt a cold shiver run down his spine like the caress of a knife blade.

(' _The Devil is out looking for his son, following in its mother's footsteps, tracking her and your friend the angel._ _If Lucifer gets his hands on that child, they'll be unstoppable.')_ Hess' words echoed again in his head.

"How is that possible?" Mom asked.

Sam shook his head, "Crowley… I guess," he pressed his fingers into the long healed scar on his palm.

"And now _he's_ dead?" Mom questioned.

"Well, that's what Hess said. But Crowley's a freakin' cockroach. I'll believe he's gone when I see the body and burn it." Dean grated in reply, his face blank in a way that told Sam his brother was anything but calm.

"We don't need Crowley. We need Rowena." Sam answered and drew his phone out of his pocket. Dean didn't look up. "I mean, she's the one who can slam Lucifer back into the Cage."

"Great. So where is _she_?" Mary Winchester asked looking a little lost.

 **—.—.—-**

 **Please leave a review before you go, I could really do with the encoragement right now.**


	109. Chapter 109:What Matters

**Chapter 109: What matters (to demons and fallen angels)**

 **Chapter 109**

Sentiment is weakness, he _despises_ sentiment!

Yet Crowley had found himself taking the sketch Gavin had drawn of his meat-suit, out of its broken frame, had tucked it into his jacket pocket, before torching the flat behind him when he left.

If Moose's biographer was to be trusted, his son thought the man he knew as his father, and had buried, before coming to 2014; was a worse man than the demon that now replaced him.

On first reading, the words had flowed past him without consideration.

He'd been certain they were badly crafted lies. But now… combined with the sketch (for all that he _was_ a hansom devil) Crowley found himself reevaluating.

It was now apparent Gavin no longer hated him.

~ Had actually wanted to say goodbye… it was like a Penrose triangle, too impossible to exist in reality, the sketched dimensions falling apart when one tried to translate them to life….

The incongruity of it had dogged the King of Hell relentlessly since leaving his deceased son's flat.

Trying to push away the unwelcome musings, Crowley surveyed the smoky red-lit interior of the S&M club, looking for a suitable diversionary companion.

Gavin was a moron, what did he know anyway?

Nothing!

He knew next to nothing of who Crowley had once been as Fergus MacLeod, before and after he sold his soul.

Knew nothing of what he'd done as a new fledged demon in Hell, or after; for and with Lilith, rising through the ranks, or everything he'd done to cement his kingship.

Any sentiment his late son had felt, was simply the result of how little Gavin knew, and his idiotic tendency to think the best, when un or misinformed.

Crowley knows what he is, and what he had been.

He'd been a marginal human-being.

Not his fault; life had dealt Fergus MacLeod a bad hand.

He'd had flaming red hair, no father and a mother that loathed him. All of which had made him the whipping boy of everyone within a hundred-mile radius. Then his mother had abandoned him, without a second glance, as rumours of witchcraft circulated like the plague, he'd ended up in a workhouse, at all of 8 years old.

He'd had the red hair, but it hadn't been a warm and fuzzy, little orphan Annie story. Being a boy like that, tainted by rumours of witchcraft ~ Fergus Macleod hadnt survived into adulthood by believing the sun would come out tomorrow.

So of course, Fergus Macleod, Gavin's father, had been most concerned with proving himself, keeping what he had, extracting what the world owed him and looking out for himself. It had been a matter of survival.

Fergus had been a failure at long term planning, a drunkard, and an awful role model.

But, was there any wonder he hadn't cosseted his son?

The little shit had caused Fergus's wife, Gaveina's death, by being born.

Gavin was lucky Fergus hadn't drowned him at birth. Gaveina had been the only good thing to happen to Fergus.

Now, Crowley could barely remember her. The woman was just a rough sketch of something soft and mostly forgotten.

Hell had stripped away a lot of dross and forged him into something sharper and cleaner. Removed many of Fergus Macleod's petty flaws, and the damnable red hair.

Of course, Gavin thought Crowley, King of Hell, was an improvement on _that_ failed slice of humanity, a man so full of rancid grief, bravado and foolishness he'd sold his soul (something he admittedly hadn't believed existed until too late) for the paltry gain of 3 more inches below the belt.

Crowley moved to the bar, and waved a hand at the heavily pierced bartender, requesting the best scotch whiskey the establishment could scare up.

As the adrogenous individual poured, he/she eyed Crowley's impeccable suit and tie ensemble with a knowing smile, no doubt assuming him to be some kind of boardroom warrior, slumming it with the freaks and fetishists. Considering an exploration of leather studded collars and submission. Expected him to turn tail and run back home to his trophy wife and 2.4 children long before leather or metal met flesh. She/he wrongly assumed Crowley was out of his depth in such an establishment.

Little did the metal festooned advertisement against leather and tattoos realize, what lurked inside the designer suit and falsely affable meat, or how much pain something like Crowley could inflict and endure.

Every single person in the seedy bondage dungeon was just a pretender by comparison, sheep dressing up and pretending to be wolves. Crowley raised the glass of inferior scotch to his lips with a smirk.

He was a dragon among sheep.

….

 _('…Yeah okay, so what? Doesn't that mean you've been tortured enough…')_

Crowley snarled at his reflection as the prophet's words echoed through his memory for the hundredth time, and adjusted his shirt cuffs, then reached for his jacket.

Furious beyond words.

His dominatrix companion was gone along with her various whips and implements, after a busy few hours. He'd worn her out, but he felt more unsatisfied and frustrated than he had before things began.

 _('A villain is just a victim whose story hasn't been told,')_

Crowley scowled sullenly at his reflection again, as he fleetingly remembering the way Sam's pet had lifted her chin and shot him a petulant pout as she tossed him that trite little line, green eyes all wide and shiny under lowered lids.

What did she know? Whittering little house sparrow, with her imbecilic beliefs and tiny, weak fluttering hands.

He is the villain of the piece!

And he most certainly isn't a victim, not any more.

He _**Likes**_ pain, it feels like home.

It is home, a taste of his home, Hell –

Pain cuts through all the clunky misaligned dullness, legacy of what he is ~ even housed in a meat-suit, (which is a million times better than existing as a disembodied spirit chained to hell, but still so enragingly incomplete.)

Pain lights up a meat-suits nerve endings, gel's things. The experience of pain is the closest most demons come to feeling truely alive, (that and eating babies.)

Crowley embraces pain and calls it his closest friend. He knows it is his lot, what he deserves, what he needs.

"… _I'm a demon!"_

 _('Yeah okay, so what? Doesn't that mean you've been tortured enough?')_

He smooths his tie fastdidiously and stares at his reflection in the mirror.

 _('…salt hurts you, the real you? What can I do to make it better?')_

The memory of small concerned fingers smoothing over his stinging palm assaults him once more.

"Stop it!" He snarls. "Just stop it! Shut up, shut up, shut up! Can't _help_ , damn you!" Red floods the eyes that stared back at him in the mirror.

Demon, not a man!

He lashes out, turning his reflection to a crazy jigsaw of shards.

Today, now, pain and debasement aren't working how they should, they feel somehow ill fitting, turdry and cheap. A pointless exercise in futility, not a focus or sharpener of his rage and intellect.

And the leading of a human soul to blacken itself further, aiding and abetting a human's heedless wandering deeper into the pit's embrace; magnifying cruelty and the debasement of others, encouraging the ever-increasing downward spiral, in the pursuit of gratification and power… it seems like an empty victory…

He remembers sitting across from Amara.

' _Would you? You'd really be happy if everyone... was evil?'_ She'd asked.

He remembers a moment of unease looking into the facade of Amara's eyes.

 _(('I'm a demon… I'm not supposed to be happy!'))_

' _Well...Actually, now I come to think of it, if everyone was dark and damned, wouldn't be much of a challenge.'_ He'd answered, as a regroup. _'Watching a human reject the light and embrace depravity... Yes, well, that's where the gratification really is. Never gets old.'_

Except, maybe it is getting old.

What is the point of building the kingdom of Hell when someone else's arse sits the throne?

 _('I looked out at the sea of your subjects with you, none of it even gave you satisfaction. You're just going through the motions. The worst kind of liar is the one that lies to himself.')_

It's Sam's little bitch's fault, she's ruined this release for him, she's poisoned him with her blood and her words.

He's lost his throne, his position, his minions and now he is losing his grip on himself. He can't let that happen.

He hates the damned prophet! Loathes her, he tells himself. Marshaling all the considerable passion he can muster, he sets it to the task of scourging his mind of soft touches and undeserved kindness, of questions and doubts.

Tells himself he wants to cut her to ribbons and bathe in her blood, defile her corpse.

Kill her, break her, then she'll no longer be a threat.

….no….

Crowley lets a breath escape, hissing between his lips. Watches the red drain away from his eyes in the kaleidoscope of shattered reflections.

No, he is stronger than that! He can't, won't allow emotion to become a stumbling block, he'll be damned – more damned, if he'll let something like _feelings_ interfere with his plans, and his eventual victory.

He has plans, and for all he hates the weakness and sentiment the prophet threatens to infect him with… she matters, he… needs her, for now at least.

Crowley hates someone - _something_ far worse. In comparison she a is minor irritant, a birthday candle overshadowed by to a city block ablaze.

He can't overthrow Lucifer or retrieve his throne alone.

Dear sweet, _sickening_ little Michele is a necessary unpleasantness, for now…

He doesn't have the raw power necessary to win alone.

He needs a weapon, one that will work, he's not repeating the ballsup with the Colt!

Hands of God are out, as far as he can acertain there arent any left.

In hindsight the Michael Lance _would_ have done the trick, (especially if he'd been able to use the Winchester's to wield it.)

But, of all the bleeding luck! He destroyed the thing in a misguided moment, saving the Winchester's pet angel from a messy demise.

If he'd known Lucifer would slip his leash and turn the tables the way he did, he'd have let feathers rot, stolen the lance, and used it the way Michael intended. He'd have stuck Ol' Scratch with the pointy end.

But alas, what was done was done.

Very few things can kill an archangel, but Crowley's team of numb-skull research idiots agreed on one fact, that a nephilim grows to be more powerful than the angel that spawns it. Kelly Kline's bouncing baby abomination may be Crowley's last best hope to rid the world (and his throne) of Lucifer.

Conversely, if Lucifer finds and subverts his spawn, all bets are off. Game over, Crowley has no illusions.

Which leaves him in a race to find the nephilim… His plans have changed somewhat of late, he didn't lie to Michele, he doesn't want it dead anymore, wants to neutralize it. (Temporarily. What is extracted can be reinstated, he learned that with Castiel.), Save it… raise it, use it, as a weapon against it's Daddy dearest.

Little Jacky Kline appears not to be overly well disposed towards demons, if accounts of Dagon's demise are accurate. But it has a deep attachment to Crowley's Prophet on a string, as do the Winchester's. Castiel is a fly in the ointment, but he has a recorded desire to murder Michele, Jack Kline's first little friend. Crowley can use that, and he will, when the time is right.

…ooo0ooo…

"We don't need Crowley. We need Rowena." Sam answered Dean's diatribe about what cockroach Crowley was, drew his phone out of his pocket. "I mean, she's the one who can slam Lucifer back into the Cage."

"Great. So, where is she?" Mary Winchester asked.

"Could be anywhere. Thankfully we've got her number and she makes house calls. Rowena's run foul of Lucifer a few times herself, she'll help." Dean told his mother trying to sound confident, Sam could see through his brother's act.

He scrolled through his contacts and found Rowena's number, held the phone to his ear listening to it ring.

Just when Sam was sure it would just go to answer phone, it picked up.

"Oh, hey, Sammy." A male voice answered, sly and amused. And _oh god!_ Sam knew that voice like the sound of his own screams.

Lucifer!

He sucked a breath feeling the familiar conflict of urges.

Panic! Fight! Flee! Battling against experience's advice …freeze and endure.

Fighting only ever made things worse.

"What?" Dean demanded.

Unable to speak, he put the phone on speaker.

"…Oh, if you're looking for Rowena, she is presently indisposed." Lucifer continued smugly, Sam avoided watching Dean's reaction. "…Which is a delicate way of saying, I stomped on her face till the white meat showed, and then set her on fire, just in case."

Sam closed his eyes in horror, stomach lurching.

"Ahhh, Gingers!" Lucifer breathed, sounding almost fond. "It was messy and... screamy, but it had to be done, Sam," he chided just like he'd done so many times in the cage.

 _('You! You Sam, are making me do this… I have to, Sammy, you understand... You need to learn. Brought this on yourself… You betrayed me… Pops made you_ _ **for**_ _ **me**_ _… and you are Sooo disappointing... But we are forced to make do…')_

"I'm about to be a dad," Lucifer continued. "Can't raise the little nipper from a jail cell now, can I? Speaking of... you know where your little pal Castiel is?"

"Go to hell." Sam choked the words out past numb lips.

"Ooh! Good one. Witty! I'll use that in the future. All right, well, I'd love to chat with ya, but, ahh, why waste my time, right?" Lucifer simpered slyly.

"… It's not like you matter.

I don't need to put on the old Sam suit anymore, do I?"

 _('No one needs you Sam, you do nothing but destroy the lives of everyone who cares, Mommy, Daddy, Dean'o. The only being in all of creation left who cares or wants you is me Sam-my and you keep managing to screw the pooch on that too. Now let's try this again...')_

Sam hunched his shoulders, unaccountably flayed by Lucifer's sudden easy contempt, as if he was just a used paper cup.

"You know, if you think we're just gonna let you walk –"Dean broke in suddenly.

"Oh, hey, Dean!" Lucifer called affably cutting Dean off.

"I know you fellas are gonna try, you know… whatever." Lucifer continued dismissively. "…Whatever you're gonna try… But you can't kill me. You've _never_ been able to kill me. And with, uh, witch bitch gone, you can't put me back in the Cage, so like I said... _**you don't matter**_. _Okay?_ Buh-bye. Buh-bye."

With that taunt Lucifer hung up, leaving Sam with a hammering heart and a sick feeling of something like loss coiled in his gut.


	110. Chapter 110: Things get Biblical

**Chapter 110: Things get Biblical**

 **Chapter 110**

After the phone call with Lucifer, Dean had collected up the things from the Abrogation ritual silently and stalked out; jaw clenched with fury, anger seething in his eyes.

Sam watched him leave nervously, grateful Mom hadn't tried forestalling or talking to him.

When Dean looked like that, you gave him space.

Sam pulled his laptop towards him across the table, looked down and ran his fingers over the keys while his mind jangled uselessly over Lucifer's words.

They needed to focus. Lucifer hadn't found Cas and Kelly yet, there was that. Cas didn't know Lucifer was looking for them either of course. He wasn't opening his or Dean's messages.

But maybe he'd listen to Mom.

"Uhhh Mom, you and Cas were in contact, after the government took us, weren't you?"

His mother stared at him blankly for a moment, then nodded.

"Cas needs to know Lucifer's not in the cage, that he's trying to find Kelly. He's not opening anything from Dean or me, it's a long shot…"

"You think he might read what I send?"

He nodded nervously. "Uhh, yeah…"

"On it." His mother pulled up Dean's laptop and started typing.

"You know, Lucifer's right." Dean limped back up the steps from the war-room after doing what ever it was he needed to do, to collect himself. "We can't kill him and we can't slam his ass back in the Cage."

Sam drew a breath. "Yeah. Okay. So… maybe we play for time. Find Cas and Kelly, keep 'em moving. If Lucifer can't find them, he can't hurt them."

"You think Castiel is gonna go along with that?" Mary asked.

Dean gritted his teeth in response. "Think we'll give him a choice?"

"And the baby?"

"Hopefully, we can still siphon off its grace." Sam answered, trying to find some hope in how enthusiastic Michele had been over that plan when he told her. But Michele and her naive world view seemed like a distant dream, after hearing Lucifers voice. "If not, uh... we'll figure something else out."

"Yeah, we better." Dean agreed, eyes averted.

"All right, then." Mom answered checking her gun. "Kind of always wanted to punch the Devil in the face." (or murder his unborn child.) "So how do we find them?"

"All right, look, we know Kelly's gonna have that kid soon. Like, really soon. And according to the lore, whenever a nephilim is born, there are signs. Uh, storms, outbreaks of disease, uh, plague of locusts."

"Things get Biblical." Dean added.

"Exactly! That much power coming into the world, whenever and wherever it happens, things get weird."

"So we're looking for something...weird?!" Mary asked

"Yeah." Dean nodded, his cocky grin didn't quite reach his eyes. "…Story of our lives."

…ooo0ooo…

Crowley lurked unseen and watched before making his entrance.

The little prophet was supervising her child at play in the sandpit, all unawares she was under observation, clueless as ever. Some people were born to be victims.

Finally, stuffing his hands into his pockets he cleared his throat and ambled into the prophets line of sight.

"Hello Darling."

Her initial response was all prey animal sensing a predator. She froze, eyes wide and startled.

That didn't last long, however, she jumped to her feet and placed herself between him and the child.

"Crowley," She breathed his name, nodding nervously. Gathered the boy into her arms, dusting sand off as she carried it up the front steps.

"We're out of Whiskey, but I can offer you tea …. Or coffee…" She offered over her shoulder, like a perfect little hostess; ruffling the child's hair, as she handed it an iPad and shepherded it into the house in front of her.

When he moved to follow, she held up a hand.

"Not a good idea," She cautioned, "I put the salt lines and warding back up."

He narrowed his eyes. "So you're practicing segregation now?"

"This isn't some kind of underserved apartheid Crowley. You threatened my kids, you _keep_ threatening them. Now I've got more blood in my brain, I can see you were right. It's foolish letting you in."

"Maybe I see the error of my ways."

"Maybe you do, but in either case you'll understand and respect my boundaries. You aren't hurt, it's a nice day. Enjoy the sunshine and fresh air." She lent against the door and watched him skittishly from the other side of the salt line waiting for his reaction.

"Boundaries eh?" He could breach her salt lines or find another way in if he wanted, it was an old house. But allowing her to feel overconfident would pay better dividends.

The prophet leaned her head back against the open door and nodded. "Boundaries. Every relationship needs them to be healthy."

"So we're in a relationship are we kitten? Scandalous!" He goaded playfully, dropping his voice to a more intimate register.

The play of all that healthy new blood beneath her skin broadcasted her discomfort brilliantly.

"That's not what I meant, Crowley! Any pattern of interaction between two parties can be defined as a relationship. You're only here because you want something."

"You wound me." He declared, hand to his heart, fixing her with a hurt look.

As expected, she coloured further, caught up by the obligations of being a nice little good girl.

"I didn't—" She began, then stopped, tilting her head to the side, and looked at him with narrowed green eyes. "You find reasons to play at being wounded!" She accused.

Crowley licked his lips and smiled widely. "Oh Pet! Now you're just flirting—"

More colour stained her cheeks. Such fun, she was delightfully over-sensitive, and so easy to keep off balance.

"What _would_ hubby say hmmm? I take it Mr Prophet is still all unawares of your extracurricular activities."

The little hobbit housewife looked away and her shoulders tensed. "Phil doesn't know what I am, if that's what you mean." She admitted, sliding down the open door to seat herself on the floor just inside the entryway. "…Or that I'm being stalked by the King of Hell..."

He mirrored her actions, seating himself fastidiously on the garden bench.

"And yet, hubby saw your eyes do their light show."

"Sam says people block out or make excuses for things they can't explain."

Sam, Sam, Sam! Always with the bloody Winchester's! Crowley gritted his teeth in irritation as she continued.

"…Phil hinted uncomfortably around the edges, but he never came right out and asked…"

"And your response to those hints?"

"I, I fobbed him off." She admitted, rubbing at her lips uncomfortably, then caught herself and steepled her hands over her knees.

"I _wanted_ to tell him the truth…"

He raised an eyebrow, but didn't contradict her.

"…but it all sounds so crazy, and what proof do I have? Mostly though, I couldn't get John Winchester out of my head." She sighed. "I'm probably going to die…"

"My, aren't we a pessimistic Poppet, and all this time I had you pegged as an optimist."

She shrugged. "John… he lost Mary, and that was terrible… But once he knew what was out there in the dark, it ate him alive. He uprooted his kids… dragged them all round the country... Started _seeking out_ the bad things, because half an answer is worse than no answer at all. I'd like to believe Phil wouldn't be like that… but when I met him… he… kind of was… He was adrift, the girl's birth mother, when she cheated, then walked out, it really blindsided him.

After, as a kind of response, he ended up driving round the country, meeting women off line, partying, and bouncing from one hook up to the next … He dragged the twins with him, like they were luggage. It wasn't healthy for any of them." She chewed her bottom lip, pushing her hair back over her shoulder restlessly.

"Don't get me wrong, people have different reactions to discovering the world isn't the way they thought, he isn't a bad man, I don't think John was either…exactly.

Men just have this tendency, not to think through, or see the consequences of their actions on the kids. Most kids are pretty tough, they can survive a lot of that inattention, but Johnny, he's not like other kids… I can't…" She made a small broken sound in the back of her throat. Let her head drop forward, breathing shallow and ragged, with her hands balled tight into fists.

Crowley watched her distress passively, and felt an old curl of resentment in his gut. That, that was how a mother _ought_ to look, at the thought of abandoning her child!

Not how _**she**_ had.

 _("Now Fergus, wait here and I'll be back in a flash, then we can go get you those new shoes that you've been harping on about.")_

After a long moment Michele lifted her chin and stared blankly into space. Her voice took on a shocky, dissociative quality as she continued speaking.

"As things stand Phil thinks this is just some medical thing, dumb luck, like cancer. He'll be able to grieve and move on, they'll muddle through and pull together, I think the girls are old enough to have a steadying influence… But if Phil's obsessed with chasing or blaming something… supernatural, he'll forget to focus on the kids. I can't risk that happeni—"

"Go on telling yourself that, Darling." Crowley cut in to the woman's myth recital.

"Everything said and done, you're just scared to tell him, you're scared he'll leave you! Divorce statistics for chronically ill or delusional women… they're interesting reading Poppet. He called it quits on the twins birth mother didn't he Pet? Why wouldn't he do the same with you."

She blinked at him, and frowned like a child asked to do a difficult math equation.

He waited for her to argue, to lie and declare her unending trust in the man she was married to. Couldn't wait to throw her own words back in her face. ( _The worst kind of liar is the one that lies to themselves.)_

Instead she sighed wearily. "You forgot to add in the divorce statistics of parents of autistic children, Crowley. If numbers never lie, I'm kinda screwed, I guess. Is this the part where you urge me to leave him, before he leaves me? Do unto others, before they do you?"

He remained silent and waited.

"Have you ever heard the allegory about heaven, hell and the banquet table? I think there's a couple of versions. Anyway, in both heaven and hell it's the same setup. People, a feast, and the same catch. The people can't bend their arms to feed themselves. The people in hell starve, the people in heaven simply feed each other."

"That's a stupid story, the dead don't need to eat!"

"And so he misses the point." She sighed and rolled her eyes at him. "My point is if _all_ you care about is yourself, serving yourself, protecting yourself… you create Hell _wherever_ you are. Not caring about anyone or throwing away the people you care about, who care about you, because they _might_ not _always_ care for you… Deciding it will hurt less if you hurt them first. That's…. That's Hell logic Crowley.

To love is a risk, an act of faith, if you believe the best of people, reach out and treat them right, most of the time they live up to it."

"You live in a dream, little girl!"

"While _you_ live in Hell, Crowley… _or you did..._ "

He crossed his arms sulkily and glared at her from his side of the salt-line. "Besides, heaven isn't like that. Remember, all the good little boys and girls are locked up by themselves. _Getting their jollies all on their own_ , all rather masturbatory if you ask me."

Michele's cell phone began to play the song, "Bad Liar" by the American pop rock band, Imagine Dragons; she looked around for the source of the music, confused.

"Speak of the devil." He informed her.

She just frowned in puzzlement, looking around trying to find the source of the music.

"Answer your bloody phone," he ordered impatiently, "hubby's calling."

After a flash of surprise, she drew out and answered her phone. Got to her feet and walked away from him deeper into the house as she spoke to her husband.

She needn't have bothered, he could still hear her half of the conversation, it wasn't very interesting and definitely not worth hiding.

When she returned she was carrying two mugs.

"Witty but cutting." She muttered. Her eyes never left him as she lent over and set one of the steaming mugs down on the doorstep outside the salt line.

There was a new edge of mistrust in her gaze.

"Tea, with honey."She gestured at the mug dismissively, "its how you take it right?"

It was.

She backed away and sat down facing him through the open doorway.

"What did you do to my ringtones?"

"Why accuse _me_?"

Her lips twisted, "Because you did it! Now how do I undo it?!…" She demanded tersely."…Look Legs by ZZ Top for Vic was _kind of_ funny… I'll give you that.

But _That_ song for Phil… "look me in the eyes tell me what you see? Perfect paradise tearing at the seams? Terrors don't prey on innocent victims? Trust me darling? I'm a bad liar? That isn't funny Crowley, it's just cruel. I know you're a demon, but I didn't think you were _petty."_

Was it petty? the demon asked himself, as he walked forward to retrieved the mug of tea she had set out for him.

He met her gaze as he lifted the mug to his lips and swallowed.

"You're too trusting, I was doing you a favour, really; pointing that out. Besides I think the song fits him, his fears do boil down to three things; _Your_ integrity, _your_ faith, and your _crocodile_ _tears_ —." He smirked unrepentantly at her from under lowered lashes and sipped again at his tea again.

"You're a smart girl, you research, you'll figure it out. While you're at it learn how to install passwords! Now, how is the love of your life. He's well I trust?"

Michele's body tensed then jolted, her head thudded back against the wooden door as gold light flooded her eyes.

….

Her face and shirt were a bloody mess, quite literally and Crowley couldn't take his eyes off it. Red so red, his mouth felt parched.

A man lost in the desert for days, staring at a glass of water.

Just out of bleeding reach.

When she stirred he was barely aware of anything except for all that red, red blood and how badly he wanted a hit of it.

"The man was Lucifer?!" She hissed.

He blinked as she surged to her feet, stormed down her front steps and slapped him.

Reciprocation was an instinctive knee jerk reaction, but his balled fist slammed to a stop, without reaching its target.

He looked down into eyes that were once more gold lit, but framed in a face subtly changed and too knowing.

"If that had landed you would have killed her Crowley. I've put up with a lot from you in the name of free will, but not that. Are we clear?"

"You!"

"Me." The uninflected voice agreed mildly. "You may be one of my guilty pleasures, Crowley. But seriously _"Do not put The LORD your God to test."_

The demon swallowed, he could hardly claim surprise.

"She hit me first." He muttered sullenly.

"She has a bit of a temper when it comes to the people she cares about, you _were_ pushing her buttons, and then…" The prophet's hijacker, the Deity formerly known as Chuck, waved it's borrowed hand airily. "Michele _really_ doesn't like how distressed Sam was, after learning about what you did.

Are you going to argue you didn't earn that slap?

Sam, Dean and Castiel they were being responsible, cleaning up their messes. You interfered. And now there's a bigger mess.

You are really pushing the 'all things work together for good' clause Crowley.

I do know why you did it.

I know _every_ excuse you have for what you did.

Now, you're hiding from the ramifications of your actions. We've all done it. But the time for that is over.

There is something offered to you here. If you make me spell it out, it won't be anymore. So I suggest you work out what you want. And get on with it."

…ooo0ooo…

"Hey, listen to this – two-headed calf was born in Lava Hot Springs, Idaho. That's weird." Dean mused handing his brother the iPad.

"That is weird." Mary agreed.

Sam scanned the article. "Yeah, but not _our_ kind of weird. Look, whatever this thing is gonna be, it – it's gonna be big and bad–"

"You rang?" Sam's head snapped around at the voice, fear hammering in his chest. But instead of what he expected. There sat Crowley grinning smugly at them.

"Hello, boys."

Dean, never one to freeze, stepped forward and punched Crowley in the jaw, spilling the demon and the chair he'd been seated on to the floor. Then, lunged forward and held the demon knife to Crowley's throat. "Did you do it? Did you let Lucifer out?!" Dean hissed in fury.

"I didn't 'let' –" Crowley fumed as he went to sit up.

"Don't!" Dean snarled stopping the demon from rising.

"Moose, a little help here!" Crowley appealed shooting a look across at Sam.

"Dean, wait."

"Seriously?" Dean and their mother flared together. Crowley smiled.

"Look… just don't kill him. He worked the Cage spell with Rowena. Maybe he can help us."

"And what if he can't?" Mom quizzed.

"Well, then we kill him." Sam answered carelessly and watched Crowley's smug smile fall.

Dean shoved the demon once then stepped back.

Crowley climbed to his feet, righted the chair and straightened his jacket resentfully. "Cage spell? Thought you had mother for that."

"Rowena's dead." Dean informed Crowley shortly.

"Really?" The demon asked cynically, doubt written large on his face.

"Yeah… really…Lucifer." Sam saw belief take hold, and a flash of something like pain on Crowley's face, something open and vulnerable. Then, in a blink the expression was gone, submerged so completely Sam questioned if he'd just imagined the flare of emotion.

"Funny. I always thought I'd be the one to kill her." Crowley replied sounding scarcely bothered.

"Crowley... ?" Sam crossed his arms defensively, and shuffled his feet, "why did you do it? Save Lucifer– What did you want?"

Again that very un-Crowley-like expression made a fleeting appearance.

"I wanted to win.

I perverted mother's spell, put Lucifer in a vessel of my own making. Because I wanted to win.

Do you have any idea how many people have made a play for my throne over the years? Lucifer, Abaddon, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Too damn many!" His anger seemed to drain away as he finished the sentence. "I thought if I could put the Devil on a leash..." Crowley sighed, "my own personal nuke, no one would ever dare challenge me again."

Dean scoffed. "Yeah. That worked out great."

"All ended with me, narrowly escaping death by hiding in a rat."

"Wait. In an...actual rat?" Mom asked in surprise.

"Wasn't too bad, really." Crowley spoke almost wistfully. "Gave me time to think…. You know, I've been focused for so long on keeping my job. Never realized I hate it. All those whining demons, the endless moan of damned souls, the paperwork—! I mean, who wants that?"

"Uh…You!?" Sam answered in surprise. Crowley just didn't seem right, it reminded him of how the demon had been in the church, with the demon cure taking hold.

Crowley dropped his eyes. "Unh-unh. Once, maybe…"

Sam frowned. "So why are you here?"

"Well, whenever there's a world-ending crisis at hand, I know where to place my bets. It's on you. You big, beautiful, lumbering piles of flannel." Crowley smiled ingratiatingly and Sam felt himself shocked by the speach. But of course it was just an act, Crowley wanted them to clean up his mess.

"...So, if you'll forgive my transgression, I'll make it worth your while….?"

"Which means?" Dean asked mistrustfully.

"After we put Lucifer back in his cage– together– I'll seal the gates of Hell. You'll never see another demon again. Apart from—of course, yours truly."

"You would do that?" Mary asked he voice thick with disbelief.

"Why not?" Crowley answered smoothly. "They stab me in the back, I'll happily stab them in the front, the sides, and right up their little black-eyed asses." Crowley's lips twisted bitterly and Sam found himself believing at least that much.

"So..." Crowley raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, his usual sly swagger returning. "Do we have a deal?"

—

 **Soo what do you think? Let me know. As always reviews are appreciated and keep me writing.**


	111. Chapter 111: Feelings!

_Chapter 111: Feelings!_

 **Chapter 111**

Michele stacked another wooden block half heartedly on top of the tower she and her son were building and stared into space.  
Physically she felt better than she had for months, but she was -troubled- by recent events.  
Crowley's latest visit felt like a badly edited movie. One moment she'd been thinking, "oh shit what did I do?" realising that she'd just _lost her mind_ and stormed down her front steps, to slap the King of Hell, like some witless heroine from her teens trashy YA novels.

Then, she'd glimpsed Crowley's fist coming at her—

 _ **And**_ _**then**_ , she was back inside the house, sitting on the floor with her face wiped clean of blood, and Crowley looking at her like she was a potentially poisonous snake.

"Gordon Bennett, the prevarication! Free will? That's a fine piece of fabulation, that is." The demon had coughed a cynical bark of laughter, "ahh, exhibit A, do yourself a favour, go read the chapter you wrote about the day we met. Read the whole bleeding story! Then let's see how you and your hypocritical roomy feel about free will!"

None of it had made any sense, but before she could ask. Crowley was gone.

For all his charm and claims of friendship she knew Crowley disliked her, he was a demon, it was just his nature to want to hurt people even if he claimed to need them. It was like the fable of the scorpion and the frog.

Trusting or listening to him could only end badly …

And yet… it was the second time Crowley had mentioned that chapter, the first had been at the blood lab. Later, she'd been so focused his theft of that tube of her blood that she had forgotten everything else.

Now curiosity ate at her.

In the lull between homework and preparing dinner for her family, she picked up her phone, second guessing herself even as she did it, and navigating to fan-fiction.

…ooo0ooo…

Moose and Squirrel's hospitality left much to be desired, Crowley brooded resentfully, fingering his jaw. He poked his borrowed tongue at the cut inside of his meat-suit's cheek. Dean knew how to throw a punch, (unlike a certain prophet,) the taste of sulfur tainted blood filled his mouth.

Close but no cigar.

Right now, what he wanted was the real thing, or some decent whiskey. Unfortunately, '77 Prophet was unavailable, likewise decent whiskey. Even blood bank, cask red, wasn't something which would garner much approval from his current audience. Alas, that left— he sauntered over to where Moose and Squirrel kept their gut rot whiskey, stored incongruous in the antique Men of Letters crystal decanter, and poured himself a glass.

The Winchester's watched him with three sets of mistrustful eyes.

He lifted an empty glass and tilted his head, offering to play host. Received three matching scowls by way of reply.

Fine, He replaced the glass with a shrug, lifted his own, and took a mouthful, almost spat the god-awful stuff out; But forced himself to swallow, he had manners, unlike some people.

He'd confessed his transgressions, offered to help put Lucifer back in his box, and shut the bleeding gates of Hell as an act of contrition.

Well maybe, he couldn't personally follow through on all his promises ~ but a King needs-must delegate, even an exiled one.

He'd make sure the job got done.

He'd picked a side, thrown his lot in with the good guys.

What more did these people want?

So, he allowed them to believe he could shunt Lucifer back into the cage… So what? It was a small half truth, leaving them to believe that all it took was gathering the correct ingredients and knowing the right combination of magical words.

If they were smarter, they'd know, perverting mother's cage spell was a wholly different ball game than performing it to begin with.

Demon or no, magic didn't come naturally to him. Not on that level. If it had, perhaps Mother wouldn't have loathed him so deeply.

( _Could she REALLY be dead, just like that?_ )

He took another mouthful of whiskey to help burn the thoughts away.

He'd chosen his current meat suit as much for its innate magical abilities, as he had for its affable face and other physical attributes. But alas, a meat-suit with a predisposition went only so far. He had the knowledge but lacked the juice for magic on the cage spell's level — without help- he eyed the youngest Winchester weighingly.

Sam Winchester had performed that damnable time travel spell, to send Gavin back to his own time. The Hardy boys might not cognise it, but that was no small pallor trick. Mother hadn't even blinked, handing it over for Moose to perform. And then there was Ruby, he'd found and read the Supernatural books, (he wasn't one to pass up an engraved invitation to know his enemy's weaknesses;) how had Ruby put it, before Dean used her own demon knife to end her? "You didn't need the feather to fly, you had it in you the whole time, Dumbo!"

Surely it would work out.

It would be a team effort, that was how the good guys worked, wasn't it?

"I trust you still have the hyperbolic pulse generator."

Mother Winchester went still.

"…Golden egg-shaped object, yay big, covered in rune-work, pops unruly archangels out of Presidents…" He prompted, watching sideways glances passing between the Winchester's. "Why am I prophesying," he snarled the word, with barely presence of mind to enjoy watching Moose and squirrel flinch, (' _bit touchy about the topic of prophecy are we boys? If only you knew,'_ ) "drama in our near future."

"We don't have it." Dean muttered.

"Who does?"

"We— we're not sure." Sam stammered, "Cas maybe? He t-told us it went into storage, b-but it isn't —"

"I — I returned it to the Men of Letters." Mary Winchester broke in.

"Of course, _**you**_ did!"

"Hey! Don't you start, you slimy sonofabitch, we wouldn't need the fricking thing if you hadn't screwed with the plan. Mom was brainwashed. What's your excuse huh?!" Dean snarled.

"Brainwashed, was she?"

Mary looked away guiltily.

As he thought, same story as with The Colt.

Amara had brought her back, Mary Winchester, the preverbal bad penny was an agent of The Darkness, antithesis of creation, and destruction trailed behind her.

Bevel was right about one thing, Oedipal myopia indeed!

"I – I returned it to Mick, after they helped us find you boys in Colorado." She admitted.

" _Well of course you did."_ He growled disgustedly, throwing Mary a venomous look.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean bristled.

"Amara brought her back. Amara, the Darkness, the antithesis of creation. Destruction! What did you tell me about Mother, Dean? ' _Family doesn't end in blood, doesn't start there either. Family's there, for good and bad, all of it. They've got your back, even when it hurts. That's family.'_ Come now boys, examine Mummy dearest's track record without the rose-tinted spectacles. Finding a less destructive mother figure is easy, if you open your bleeding eyes."

Dean looked ready to launch himself across the table on another punchy act of retribution, to defend Mummy's non-existent honour; but Moose barked his brother's name, grabbing his arm and shook his head.

( _'That's right Squirrel listen to Moose.')_

He watched an entire argument flow between the Winchester brother's, shorthanded to a few facial twitches, as Mary sat with mascaraed eyes lowered.

"Mick's dead, the pulse generator wasn't part of the arsenal in The Men of Letters armoury. It could be anywhere." Sam said finally.

"Well that _could_ prove problematic, I take it we lack the horseman's rings, and no-one's keen on Moose taking another swan dive?"

"Crowley goddamnit, sit down and shut the hell up. Or I swear to god I'm gonna do what Lucifer didn't."

"Touchy, touchy." He made a zipping motion over his lips. Sat down, with his arms crossed, and waited.

"Back to plan A," Sam shot him a look resembling a moldy lemon, "we find Cas and Kelly, keep them moving, try to drain the Nephilim's Grace. Figure out some way to deal with Lucifer later…"

Winchester's, one, two and three turned back to their electronics.

…ooo0ooo…

There had been a lot of moments when Sam had hated Crowley.

When the Colt had failed to kill Lucifer for a start, then when they found that Hex bag hidden inside the phone, after watching helplessly as Sarah choked to death…

Again, when Crowley had threatened to kill everyone they'd ever saved, including Jody…

When Dean and Cas vanished after killing Dick Roman, and then Crowley turned around and kidnapped Kevin, leaving him with no one …

Every time Crowley taunted him about not looking for his brother when he was trapped in Purgatory, for his assumption that if Dean wasn't in Hell, then he had to be in Heaven…

When Crowley talked Dean into taking the mark of Cain, and after they realized what it was doing to him…

When Metatron killed Dean, and he'd tried to summon Crowley, desperate to deal, and the bastard hadn't come.

… And _especially_ after that phone call where Crowley clued him in that Dean wasn't just dead, that he'd become a demon, a Knight of Hell, thanks to the mark of Cain.

How he'd hated Crowley for taunting him during that phone call, saying he didn't care if Dean was a demon, that what he really hated was his brother was with Crowley, having the time of his life. Hearing Crowley wax lyrical about how Dean was _his_ , _his_ bestie, _his_ partner in crime, how Dean completed _him_ … he could have ripped Crowley's heart out with his teeth for all that.

The animosity ran both ways, Sam knew. Crowley was more than a little obsessed with Dean, given a chance he'd love to turn him into a possession or pet, another Hell hound trained to rip and tear and kill.

He always felt he was in some weird competition with Crowley, maybe it stemmed from his own insecurities, or Crowley's greedy need to own. Crowley always seemed to be angling to come between him and Dean, trying to supplant him. He was a demon, an evil back stabbing monster. Yet Crowley had become an answer to too many of their problems, and Sam couldn't deny he had come through, for them. (no, for Dean.) Crowley had been there _for_ Dean. Able to _help,_ while Sam was dead weight, a burden, or the cause of more than a few of their nightmares.

Dean never felt he had to protect Crowley, or sacrifice for Crowley, (like how Dad had hammered it into Dean's childhood psyche he had to protect and sacrifice for Sam.)

Crowley, Like Cas, was someone Dean considered strong enough to be treated as an equal.

Something Dean could never seem to do with Sam.

And sure, Crowley had let Dean down, betrayed and used him, he was a demon, you expected that. Thing was, so had he, Sam, his little brother. And Dean never expected Sam's betrayals.

What Sam hated most about Crowley, was how when he looked at the demon, he saw a manipulative monster; one that looked like a reflection, of the thing Sam always feared festered inside of _him_. Right down to that blood addiction and the tendency to demand more from Dean than he was ever capable of giving.

Sam hated Crowley for his insight, and for how often he right, about things Sam wished just weren't true.

...Maybe Crowley was right about Mom.

Amara had said she was giving Dean what he needed most, but Mom kept _Wounding_ Dean.

Crowley was right too, (and it pained him to admit it,) there were other women who had tried to mother Dean and had succeeded far better than their own Mother since her return.

A string of waitresses, motel managers, and the well-meaning mothers of classmates, when they were kids.

Then Ellen, Jody… and even Michele.

Sam glanced at the Skype icon and looked away guiltily, he ached suddenly to call and hear Michele's voice, to pretend for a few minutes, and let himself be wrapped in her unwavering caring and kindness.

To watch her fuss over Dean's hurts in her, bulletproof 'I'm going to care, and you can't stop me, so get used to it Dean Winchester,' way.

Sam lifted his eyes, glancing at Crowley furtively through his bangs.

The demon was staring at him and sipping his drink, with a weird thoughtful look on his face.

Sam jerked his eyes away, and looked down at his hands on the laptop keyboard, feeling uncomfortable.

No, the last thing he should do with Crowley round was call Michele.

Why _was_ Crowley here? Apologizing and offering to help, offering to shut the gates of Hell?

He'd seen the demon running scared, bartering and making deals, manipulating to save his own skin, but there was something different, almost defeated, about Crowley now.

He glanced across at his mother where she sat typing away with great concentration, felt guilt swelling in his gut.

The things Crowley had said, and he'd sat there and let him… Mom had died because of him, how could he entertain any of Crowley's poisonous insinuations. What kind of son was he?

Mom had made mistakes, sure. But, so had he… Cas wouldn't have felt like he had to say 'yes' to Lucifer, if he hadn't pigheadedly decided he knew best, forced Rowena to remove the mark of Cain from Dean and released the Darkness…

What mattered now was finding Cas and Kelly, and stopping Lucifer.

Sam started searching the internet again looking for any signs of the imminent birth of a Nephilim, his fingers finding the keys almost on autopilot.

…ooo0ooo…

"This what you do when I'm not here— Type?" Crowley asked.

"Yep." Dean answered without looking up from the iPad he was using. He waited for Crowley to start in on bitching or trying to incite more drama, like the drama douche he was.

"Wait a second. I got something." Sam cut Crowley off before he got started. "Okay, two hours ago, there was a massive power outage in the Pacific Northwest."

"Sounds like the right kind of weird." Mom encouraged.

"Oh, yeah! Wait…"

Dean watched his brother's face, saw his wifi symbol frown line deepen, then the side of mouth slowly creep up in satisfaction.

"….They tracked the outage to an address in … North Cove, Washington, to a house currently being rented by one _James Novak._ "

Sammy favored him with one of his 'I'm so smart' looks.

"That's Cas!" Dean banged his fist down on the table. "Let's roll!"

"It's about time." Crowley grated, and gathered himself to climb to his feet, as if he had every right to join them.

The sonofabitch's presumption just pissed Dean off.

He swept up the demon knife and brought it down hard, nailing Crowley's hand to the table with it.

The Demon screamed like a little girl and had the gall to look all hurt and betrayed. Like he wasn't 100% to blame for the entire Lucifer shitshow.

"Think we're gonna trust you out there after what you pulled? Hmm?" He glared at Crowley, made sure 'the king' understood who was in charge. "No! You stay here, you sit down, and you shut up." With that they all walked out, leaving Crowley to think about exactly how -not forgiven- he was for letting Lucifer out of his box.

…ooo0ooo…

When Michele heard a knock on the door, she was expecting to open it on someone either holding a clipboard and asking if she was happy with her current power company, or someone in sensible shoes holding a watchtower magazine and asking if she had ever pondered spiritual matters.

Instead she opened the door on a demon, holding his own bleeding hand like it was an item of evidence.

"This is what I get!" Crowley snarled without preamble, shaking his bleeding hand at her.

After a moment of shock, Michele sighed deeply, sucking in a lungful of air that smelled of sulphur and made her throat ache.

"Sit down, I'll get the first aid kit." She ordered pointing at the garden bench, then collected the first aid kit and a basin of water from the kitchen.

"It's just like owning a Tom cat." She muttered to herself, sitting down next to the demon and adding a capful of disinfectant to the basin of water.

"What?" Crowley asked through clenched teeth.

"You! You disappear off and get into trouble, then come back filthy and or bleeding…" Crowley huffed and looked offended by the comparison; but let her take his bleeding hand and peer at it, then immerse it in the basin of disinfectant-water in her lap.

"Do you bloody mind, that hurts!" Crowley hissed, making a token attempt to pull it out again.

She tightened her grip. "Don't be a sook Crowley. I need to clean it. And see. So I can work out what you've done to yourself."

"I didn't do this! Dean Bloody Winchester did it! He pinned my hand to a table with that bleeding demon knife of his."

She might be focused on his hand, but she could feel him glaring at her, watching her for a reaction.

She stayed silent.

"I offer to help put Lucifer back in his box and shut the gates of Hell and this is what I get as repayment."

She continued cleaning away half clotted blood without comment.

The wound was certainly consistent with a skewering with some kind of large knife.

"When ever one of my kids comes running to me with tales of how someone did something to them… _'Johnny hit me, Chris pulled my hair, Jennifer went in my room, Victoria called me a bad name.'_ I always ask the same question." She said, lifting his hand out of the disinfectant and patting it dry. She'd dealt with her fair share of minor, and not so minor injuries in her years, between various pets, children, and a DIY inclined husband, but never a hand skewered theough with a demon knife. ~There were a lot of necessary things you could damage inside a hand.

"I need you to move each finger separately, then make a fist, please."

Grudgingly the King of Hell did as he was asked. "That's good, okay… I guess the tendons are alright….

Can you feel it when I do this?" She tapped the tip of each of his fingers gently.

"Yes, yes, yes, _yes_ and _**yes.**_ Stop poking already woman!"

So, the nerves were probably alright too. And that pretty much exhausted her orthopaedic skills.

"You seem okay… apart from the hole through your hand." Crowley grunted. "I'd feel better if you let me take you to A&E, got it checked out by an actually doctor. But, me feeling better isn't something you care about, obviously…

Anyway… you'll _probably_ be okay without stitches, I'm going to tack both sides together with steri-strips, cover it with gauze and put a bandage over it, is that okay?"

Crowley didn't bother to answer, just watched scowling.

"What question?" He asked finally after a few minutes of silence, as she finished with the steri-strips and gauze.

She blinked, confused for a moment, before realising which question the King of Hell was referring to.

"Oh, I always ask what they did to the other party, they invariably say 'nothing,' but if you give them time to think, they'll eventually admit that they had some responsibility for what happened."

"Of course, _you'd_ say that. Blame the victim."

"You're the one that told me everyone's a victim at some point... Yes, sometimes we catch the heat unfairly. But, _come on! Lucifer? Lucifer?! Why did you...? What were you thinking... I cant believe I didn't..."_ She huffed a breath of outrage. "Dean has every reason to be furious with you. I don't approve of…" she nodded down at the injured hand, "…but…"

"I apologised! I offered to help and _still_ he did me like this!"

"So, even if you are sorry… for making all the Winchester's personal suffering and sacrifices to put Lucifer back in the cage, pointless—"She couldn't keep the anger out of her voice.

"I suffered too!" Crowley argued cutting her off.

She continued patching up his hand and didn't answer.

"I did!" He insisted his face like a sulky child.

"Which makes what you did _less_ understandable. Besides suffering doesn't make you innocent of your other actions. Did you _really_ expected there to be no consequences, no accountability, just forgiveness? Crowley the bible says there is no forgiveness without repentance, and repentance means turning away. Choosing to stop past behaviour. You misled them, and me. Just because you admit doing wrong -after the facts are out in the open, I might add- You can't expect a few of promises to fix things. Crowley, you need to change, to prove it. Demons lie, and when they don't, they use half truths to manipulate. Sam and Dean KNOW that! Try denying it.

You can't just apologise and make promises and think people will believe you, when you have the kind of history you do, you can't! You have to change, and prove it. Words are wind. Talk is cheap, but it takes money to buy whiskey..."

"Speaking of whiskey, Lucifer killed Mother."

"Oh— "Michele breathed in shock, derailed. "Umm, are you okay?" She studied his face sympathetically. Crowley's relationship with his mother had been complicated and hate wasn't the opposite of love, it was what caring turned into under a big enough burden of hurt.

"Marvellous! Couldn't be better, I hated the ginger whore— Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like that!" He waved a hand irritably, "it's sickening. How can you possibly care?! Mother was a witch remember? The bible you're so fond of instructs that one shouldn't suffer a witch to live."

"Crowley, I don't want to debate bible verses about witchcraft with you, not now," she said softly.

The demon smirked and lifted an eyebrow. "Why? Afraid I'll win Darling?"

Was this all just a game to him?

She stood up abruptly, took two strides and tossed the dirty water from the basin onto the grass. "Is winning all you care about? _No matter how you play it YOU can't win the game you've begun."_ The words she couldn't remember saying, or writing in her fic, came tumbling out of her mouth.

They both flinched, and suddenly Crowley was right up inside her personal space.

"Don't you-" He hissed grabbing a fistful of her hair, jerked her head back, looking down at her with furious red flooded eyes.

The powerless little kid in her froze and waited fatalistically for escalation.

Instead the red receded and Crowley's gaze flicked back and forth between her eyes and her mouth.

He let go of her and backed away a furrow between his brows.

"So, I can assume you caught up on your reading, then?" The demon asked casually, as if he hadn't just grabbed and hurt her.

Michele blinked, felt the temptation to believe she'd imagined the violence, but for her stinging scalp.

"Yes," she lifted her chin and glared at him, raised a hand to try and rub away the pain. "I read my fic." She answered shortly, turning away from him abruptly, back to the garden seat and began packing away the first aid supplies with shaking hands.

"And how does it all make you fe-el, Darling? Used and violated, perchance? As if being forced to write bad fanfiction wasn't enough, you discover you've been a patsy this entire time." Crowley tisked, and cocked his head to one side, a look of transparently false solicitude on his face.

How did she feel? Michele stared at the demon and let out a shaky hissing breath and closed her eyes to deny the prick of tears.

"I fe-el … confused and scared and used — but also **like** **I asked for it** _so I got what I asked for._ ' _Use me Lord, I want to do your will Lord, I want to save the lost for you Lord Jesus.'_ " She mimicked her prayers mockingly and coughed up a harsh bark of something with no relation to laughter. "Of course I didn't know what I was asking for but who does? Demons _are_ about as lost as they get aren't they Crowley. I ought to be flattered. How do _**you**_ feel, Crowley? You're addicted to human blood again, only standing here because of me, my God and a rat, I bet that feels great too _, doesn't it your Majesty._ " She glared at him and Crowley scowled back at her.

Then, pain spiked through her head like a railway spike hitting a mains cable.

For a millisecond, Michele thought the pain meant she'd finally pushed Crowley too far; but only until the images and knowledge began to fill up her mind and she felt strong hands grab her shoulders and stop her from falling.


	112. Chapter 112: Light and Darkness

**Chapter 112: Light and Darkness**

 **Chapter 112**

Sam sat in the rear seat of the impala, staring at the back of his Mom's head.  
Mom was riding shotgun beside Dean, while he'd been relegated to the back, without consultation, like a child.

Funny how he'd never paid attention to that happening before today, before Crowley's comments about Mom and Amara, and what Amara was.

Yin to Chuck's Yang; the opposite of creation —destruction.

Mom sitting in his seat, riding shotgun beside Dean, it was a small thing, but it bugged him suddenly.

He blamed Crowley and his words for that, words that circled relentlessly in his head. Like vultures waiting for their prey to die under the desert sun. Cowardly and patient, eager and hungry.

He was glad Dean had pinned Crowley to the table. Glad they'd left the bastard alone in the bunker, with the lights off.

He _was_ glad they'd left Crowley behind, Sam told himself, as his eyes were drawn again to the bright gold of his Mom's hair and the profile of her face, he watched her settle further into the seat in front of him with her eyelids drooping and stifled a sigh.

Was he really glad? Or was there part of him, that wished Crowley with them? So he'd be the bad guy, and do the job of mistrusting Mom, so neither he or Dean has to.

' _They've got your back, even when it hurts. That's family.'_

He looked away from Mom rubbing restlessly at a snag in the fabric of his jeans. What if Crowley was right, what if Mom was some kind of agent of Darkness … a force that opposed life?

Chuck had called him and Dean the firewall between the forces of light and darkness; but since Mom came back, there's been one stumble after another, and neither he or Dean can seem to see straight past Mom.

Crowley is kinda right about the rose-tinted glasses, there are a pile of betrayals and bad calls piled up at Moms door, and they've ignored them, because she's _Mom_. Things that Dean would have put a bullet in, or at least draw blood for, if it was anyone else.

Cas nearly died at the lake house, the whole thing had been a clusterfuck, A hunter died and Dean had been furious, threatened to put a bullet in Michele for not warning them … but Mom, she _had_ known.  
Mom had stolen the Colt from Ramiel, kept it and given it to the Men of Letters rather than bartering it for Cas's life.  
It was only Crowley, Crowley figuring it out and destroying the Michael lance that saved Cas from an agonising death, rotting from the inside out. Crowley could have taken off, or stolen the Michael lance that day, instead he'd stayed, and saved Cas.

Dean said later that Crowley's reason for it all was 'to spare himself the Winchester Man pain, of them moping about like a bunch of school girls.'

What did that even mean? Did Crowley care more about their pain than Mom?

How screwed up was it, even asking a question like that?

He and Mom had survived the Alpha Vampires assault on the Men of Letters compound because of the Colt.

No… the Colt would have been useless without ammo. They survived because of Bobby and Ruby, because of him... and because Michele had warned him to brush up on the incantation to make the ammo.

" _Ever think that maybe when Amara gave Dean a gift… Chuck gave you one to? Ever stop to think that maybe I'm here to watch your back? Because God cares, because he wants to keep you two brave, self sacrificing, Blaze of Glory, moronic, American lunatics alive?"_

Michele's words the last time they talked came back to him. How many times had Michele tried to nudge events and keep them alive? She called it her job, got kind of pissy over it. Sam bit his lip to repress the rueful smile at the thought, suddenly he ached to tell Michele about getting a lead on Cas. Imagined her relieved smile.

But the thought of talking to Michele now, with Mom right there, felt wrong. Weirdly so.

Telling Jody about Michele had felt kind of ~ embarrassing, but good, he could imagine Jody and Michele sharing coffee, laughing and swapping stories about him and Dean, Alex and Claire, and Michele's kids. But he couldn't imagine Michele and Mom in a room together.

Maybe there was a bigger reason why, were Mom and Michele two gifts from opposing forces. One an agent of Amara, the other an agent of Chuck?

There was a weird kind of balance to the idea of that equation. Michele and Mom were about as different as two women could get. Michele was warm and nurturing, but insanely soft, someone who literally couldn't kill a mouse, she felt sorry for monsters for Christs sake. Mom, she was something else, someone who could dispassionately shot a man who'd been her lover and then brush it off.

Mom was a damn good hunter.

But, God, he missed Michele! Missed the way she encouraged and him to talk about stuff. Didn't expect him to just brush off the horrors of the life or suck it up. Like Dean and Mom did. Still maybe that wasn't fair, Dean had suggested he call Michele, before they left the bunker. Dean looking for an out, no doubt. He hated talking, those moments of vulnerability seemed to physically pain him, but he knew Sam needed them. He understood what hearing Lucifer's voice, knowing he was at large again would be doing to his little brother. It was weird to think Dean had come to accept Michele that much, her way of digging stuff out and letting the light in, helping him face and deal with things, instead of just boxing everything up and avoiding it. Her use humour as a way of defusing tension just enough to make things bearable. Like the awkward talk she'd had with him over that night with Eileen. Or that first day, talking with her on her webcam, hungover and miserable the morning after Mom told them about working for the British Men of Letters. He remembered telling Michele, what Amara had said, that Mom was the thing Dean needed most; and how she'd scrunched up her freckled nose and looked at him, with that, 'you know nothing Jon Snow,' look on her face, informed him, "I'm pretty sure what Dean Winchester needs most is you Sam...and pie... I mean seriously, if she never mentioned pie how well could she possibly know him?" The moment after those words he'd felt the tension drain out of him, like somehow, she'd healed him of a wound he didn't know he was carrying. But it's a dangerous thing expect or rely on. Michele isn't like Mom, **_Lucifer_** is too much to lay on anyone.

Maybe that's why Mom sitting in his seat feels so wrong, because he needs to be first with Dean, he needs Michele to have been right, about Dean needing Him most (and maybe that's why a minuscule part of him wants to entertain Crowley's words.)

He needed Dean's words in that church to still run true, even now, with Mom here and alive.

 _('I'm willing to let this bastard and all the sons of bitches that killed Mom walk because of you. Don't you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you! It has never been like that, ever!')_

It's greedy and it's wrong; just like what he wants from Michele. Because he wants to hear her voice right now, to draw courage and comfort from her belief, to feel like she is something or someone God had given him as a reward for everything he'd sacrificed. He needed to feel that he mattered, that what he did _**mattered**_.

…ooo0ooo…

Head resting on someone's lap, body lying somewhere soft, a hand stroking absentmindedly through her hair.

For one moment Michele assumed she was with Phil, until she recognised the expensive black cashmere suit pants under her cheek and subliminal scent of sulphur which filtered past her post-vision migraine.

Crowley.

It wasn't the first time she'd returned to herself to find Crowley in uncomfortably close physical proximity, he seemed to delight in invading her personal space, but this didn't feel like domination or a show of force.

She pushed herself upright, out of Crowley's lap and looked around, confused, finding herself in her daughters' bedroom, on her bed.

"How…?"

"Teenaged girls, take it from me Pet, they'll bugger up all your best laid plans. Salt lines on double sided tape _was_ smart. Assuming they'd stay there … _wasn't_."

Michele groaned softly.

"Don't feel bad, Love." Crowley patted her shoulder once, before sliding his hand down to encircle her wrist laxly.

"I would have let you keep your illusions … but well, I figured you'd rather not have neighbourhood tongues wagging over how you were swooned in the arms of a handsome stranger, while dear old hubby was conspicuously absent… Where is your entourage by the way?" The demons asked, sounding lazy and only marginally interested.

"Shopping," she replied, side eyeing him, "for …umm Mother's Day presents."

She glanced around again, beside them on the bed lay several things.

The sea shell Chris had given Crowley at the beach, a pencil sketch of Crowley (that Michele now knew his son Gavin had drawn,) an empty plastic syringe and its packaging. Inside were red droplets, beaded inside the opaque plastic barrel…the dregs of Crowley's latest fix. Her blood, which explained Crowley's suddenly sanguine attitude.

"Mother's Day…" He mused, thumb working absentmindedly back and forth against the fabric of her shirt sleeve. "I hope they get you something nice Darling, you certainly deserve it."

Michele closed her eyes, still gather herself and filtering through the last batch of visions.

~Kelly's averted eyes and pained desperation.

" _I don't know how long until... I don't know how long I have left. And I...I'm never gonna be able to teach him how to ride a bike or watch him get married or even look him in the eyes. But I can build him a stupid Swedish crib! I can do that."_

~The sight of Kelly, trying to record a message to her son, a son she'd never meet, as tears ran down her cheeks.

~Remembered how Kelly had/would look up at Mary Winchester and say,

"I'm dying. But that's okay. 'Cause wouldn't you die for your sons?"

Michele felt her chest constrict with grief, tears spilled down her cheeks.

"Oi, no tears, it can't be that bad!" Crowley complained querulously, lifting his uninjured hand to smudge at her tears with his thumb. "You're harshing my glow." He muttered, then licked at his thumb and pulled a face.

Michele grimaced, repulsed.

"Kelly's going to die. There's no way she can survive."

Crowley hummed and looked away.

"You want to use me as leverage against Jack. So, you can use _him_ as a weapon against Lucifer." She accused.

Crowley blinked at her owlishly and shrugged ruefully. "Better the devil you know, isn't it, Love? What else did you see. Tell uncle Crowley everything."

She blew a breath.

"You were right, this child, Jack, he's powerful. If Lucifer gets his hands on him… warps him, he really will be able to destroy everything. I saw something… as his birth gets closer, power is leaking."

"Power outage. Yes, yes."

"No… I saw..." Michele tried to sketch the shape of the glowing rift in the air with her hand, as if that could explain things to Crowley.

"Castiel, he said … Jack being born, his power, it's punctured the fabric of our universe, creating a tear in space and time. A doorway to a-another world, some kind of alternate reality - a bombed out apocalypse world. The 'Earth' there is locked in war between Heaven and Hell, with humans caught in between, nearly extinct. It's a world where Sam and Dean were never born, but the angel's apocalypse still happened, somehow."

"Bloody Hell!" Crowley straightened and looked alarmed.

"Castiel thinks Jack will close the breach… But Lucifer's hunting them…"

"Feathers is an imbecile, Nephilim don't just pop out with control over their powers. Holes let things through!" The demon frowned and looked speculative, "and maybe that's the answer…" Crowley stood up suddenly, shoved the shell and sketch back into his pocket.

"Well Pet, must fly, need to find a spell or some such thing, to stitch up a hole in the universe… sounds just the job for a witch's son and former tailor, doesn't it? Be a good girl while I'm gone, and I might bring you back a present."

With that Crowley was gone.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele found herself sitting on a park bench overlooking water. Bemused she looked around.

Taking in the view she realised she was sitting on Chris's favourite bench at the duck pond, turning open mouthed she expected to confront Crowley. To demand an explanation.

Instead she found another man, as different from Crowley as night from day; dressed as he was in worn jeans, canvas keds, a maroon hoodie and a scruffy kaki jacket. He was several inches taller than her, but still short, with curly mid-brown hair and a beard that ambled the line between ruffled and unkempt. He was a decidedly average man, veering slightly towards down and out in appearance, one that embodied the phrase, 'mostly harmless,' someone nothing at all special or memorable to look at.

The man returned her gaze patiently, unruffled and unabashed by her extended scrutiny.

The most striking thing was the man's blue eyes, Michele decided.  
His eyes were beautiful, warm and expressive, but looked sad and tired, underlined as they were by dark shadows, as if he'd seen too much lately.

Despite being certain she'd never seen him before in her life, Michele had the oddest sensation she knew him.

"I know you?" She said finally, sounding more certain than questioning, even to her own ears.

In response the man's face lit up with a warm smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"And I know you, Michele Cherie." He replied solemnly.

Like his appearance the the man's voice was nothing special, a slight American accent maybe.

But the way he said her name hit her like a wave of déjà vu, one that carried with it the deepest feeling of home and left her feeling weak kneed and lightheaded.

Pulling something out of his jacket pocket, the familiar stranger held it out so she could see.

It was a necklace of sorts, strung on a leather thong, a dark bronzeish horned head, which looked vaguely pagan.

"I borrowed it," he told her, as if that would explain anything, "thought that since you're a fan, and we're all friends, Dean wouldn't mind, as long as I returned it…" The little man twitched a finger, and a piercing white light exploded from the bronze face.

"Oh." It was a gasp of shock as she slid to her knees. Staring, shocked.

The… man twitched his finger again, and the light died, then he tucked the necklace back into his jacket pocket and turned fully to face her. Knelt down on the grass facing her, with his head cocked to one side, gifting her with a patient smile.

"I thought we should talk."

Michele opened her mouth and struggled to think of something to say, then closed it again, uncertain how to even begin addressing The Creator of everything.

"Maybe it will be easier if you just called me Chuck." God suggested, reaching out a hand and drew her back up to sit on the bench again, offering her another coaxing smile.

"I—, I'm sorry." She stammered trying to collect herself.

"It's okay, I get it, this, is a lot to take in."

Fear flooded her suddenly, as she remembered all the angry words she'd spat after Crowley first showed up. "I didn't, I didn't mean…"

"I know. It's okay, honestly. Heck doubts and fears… questioning, that's why I made humanity. Without choice nothing's real, you know."

"Why…"

"Why am I here, now?"

Michele nodded numbly.

"You're my child, I hear your prayers…" the blue eyes averted, and the corner of his mouth twisted beneath his beard, "but also because of what Sibel and the other angels did to you, what it will mean for my creation. You once told Dean that what you see becomes a chink in their armour. You were right after a fashion, but not because of the story you are writing."

"I don't…"

Chuck sighed. "Lucifer," He spoke the name quietly. "You have yellow eyed demon blood in you, like Sam. Lucifer created all his Princes of Hell with a link to him, to ensure their loyalty. Azazel infected certain select human infants with his blood, that tied them to him. But also, to Lucifer. The angels tried to create a heavenly warrior in response to Azazel's special children, you … using angelic grace and the blood of Ramiel, another prince of Hell. The angels and Azazel never understood, all those special children were just a cover for Lucifer's interest in Sam Winchester, his true vessel. Lucifer had Azazel feed Sam his blood, so Sam formed a tie to Azazel and through him, to Lucifer."

"Oh!" Michele's head spun as she considered the implications, "Are you telling me I'm tied to L-lucifer?"

"And to Sam," Chuck agreed, "and through him to Crowley, now by a number of routes."

"Crowley?"

"The life of the creature is in the blood. When Sam attempted the Hell trials, he injected his own blood into Crowley, attempting the demon cure. That attempted cure is the reason for Crowley's blood addiction. An addiction you have experienced… repeatedly. But that isn't important just now."

"Not import— _linked_ to _Lucifer_?… _**Ohhh God!**_ " The expletive fell out and — Chuck lifted an eyebrow, but simply nodded in response.

The Devil, Satan! The awfulness of the thought overwhelmed her. Crowley was a twisted broken spirit of someone who'd once been human; Ramiel too.

Gadreal was an angel, one who had been duped by Lucifer, then Metatron, but he'd sacrificed himself to try and fix things when he'd seen the error of his ways.

But Lucifer had always hated humanity, had caused the fall, the original sin. Lucifer, the Devil, had ruined everything!

Lucifer was the greatest evil imaginable to her Christian sensibilities.

She'd only glimpsed second hand memories of the things Lucifer had done to Sam in the cage, but they were horrific. "…I know he's supposed to be your favourite, but... oh god! I can't—"her voice failed, how could she express all the horror?

"Lucifer isn't my favourite. I loved him, I love him still…"

Michele whimpered as she looked upon the face of her God, and wanted to weep. How could God still love Lucifer after everything he'd done?

"I am not willing that any might perish." Chuck responded stubbornly to her unspoken thoughts, jaw clenched.

"But you were willing to let Sam throw himself into the cage with Lucifer? To endure all that torture by Lucifer's hand?!

You were willing to let Gadreal to murder Kevin, using Sam's body... EVERYTHING THE WINCHESTERS HAVE SUFFERED? You were willing for that?"

Chuck didn't answer, and suddenly that silence lit a fuse inside her.

"Why did my friend Nic have to die of cancer? Caitlin, her little girl was s-o young, why did she have to lose her mother. We all prayed, the whole church! We all believed for a miracle … and she _died_. You sure seemed willing to let that happen." She said bitterly.

"And ... and what about my son? Why did my son Davi' die?! Why give me a child then take him away like that, after all those months of sickness?! And, Johnny, I had just started to put myself back together, to believe in your bigger plan, I accepted Chris' issues… but then Johnny he changed, _**he**_ _ **broke,**_ and I couldn't fit the pieces back together, I tried, I tried so hard. And I didn't understand, I still don't understand! I prayed to _you_ , I begged _you_ for answers, for _you_ to make him like he'd been. You'd been with me my whole life and then, when I needed you most, you were _**silent**_ … They say it's autism, but is it? Or is it what your angels did to me. Your angels, that _**you left**_ , to run amuck."

"Michele."

" _ **No!**_ I don't want to know why planets are round, or why ears are shaped the way the are. I want to know _**Why!**_ Why you've left us to suffer and hurt and die alone, while evil runs rampant. Why you turn a blund eye to your angel's sins and ask _**so much**_ of people who have paid and paid again!"

"Michele, I know how hurt and alone you have felt; how much you love your children ~ All the people in your life. How seeing suffering breaks your heart.

I understand that you ache to know why.

I created the world because I was lonely... Being alone or being a puppet master, was… empty.  
The angels obeyed but they didn't understand my longing to create, to be _known_.

And I came to see that duress isn't love. Real love can only come when there is the ability to turn away and say no.

So, I created autonomy, I created free will," he spread his hands as if offering her the entire sum of the world, "and this is what humanity has chosen to do with it. Adam and Eve _chose_ to listen to Lucifer, to defy my _single_ rule, and brought death upon themselves and everything in creation. You hunger for justice?

I locked Lucifer away. I chose humanity's safety!"

No, she wanted to argue, no you didn't, you locked Lucifer in a box, you put him in time out, you postponed things, _and_ you didn't clean up the mess he made, you ignored it. Us!

"So, this is all my fault?" Chuck questioned with a glare. "Azazel may have infected Sam with his blood, but when Sam died at Cold Oak he went to Heaven. It was Dean who couldn't live without his brother, who sold his soul and broke in Hell before Castiel reached him, he broke the first seal.

It was Sam who _wanted_ to believe Ruby, so he had an excuse for his vengeance. His hunger for demon blood and power! Sam thought he knew better and broke the last seal by killing Lilith.

Their choices.

How is that on me?

Humans have been shifting the blame for their actions since Adam pointed his finger at Eve, and Eve pointed hers at the snake.

Tell me Michele, are you without sin, are you blameless?"

Michele dropped her eyes, overwhelmed suddenly by a cascade of memories, moments in her life when she'd been weak or selfish or spiteful. "No, no… I know I'm not…" she admitted faintly, wishing she could shrink from view.

Nothing but a failure, ungrateful, unworthy, so far below the standard.

Tears of shame slid down her cheeks.

A hand lifted her chin, forced her to meet depthless blue eyes. "Not perfect but forgiven.

You think you want justice, you think you want answers. But that isn't what you need.

You ask the wrong whys. Ask instead why I couldn't wipe the slate on the whole failed experiment of humanity. Ask why Noah and the rainbow, why the cross, why the bible, why the Supernatural books, and why I have you writing the story you are."

"I … I don't know."

"You do," Chuck disagreed with a gentle smile, "you and Sam talked about it once," He lifted a hand and brushed her temple.

…

"Have you ever wondered why?" Michele's voice was thoughtful, more like she was talking to herself; and maybe she was.

They've been sitting in silence for the past hour, each persueing their own projects with an open video call bridging the distance between them. Dean found it weird, wanted to know what the point of calling someone then basically ignoring them was. Sam can't explain it to his brother, that in a weird way it feels a bit like cramming for separate finals with Jess or Becky and Warren.

Sam glanced at the laptop screen, away from the faded Latin document he's been puzzling out. (It appeared to be an account by a 13th century cleric, concerning the pregnancy of a cloistered nun who claimed her child was fathered by an angel.)

"You'll have to be more specific. Why … it's a pretty broad topic." He favoured his friend with a lopsided smile.

"Why Chuck, Uh God, wrote the supernatural books… what the point was." She scrubbed at her lips nervously with back of her hand, gazing at him from under lowered lashes, it was one of her many nervous tells. Sam found it sort of endearing, She would be an incredibly bad poker player.

"I know you hate the books, I get that, but have you ever wondered why He wrote them?"

"No, not really." Sam wondered idly if Dean would call into a bar on his way back from his supply run.

"I've talked, well exchanged messages with a lot of fans of the supernatural books… since uhm writing The…" she made a throw away gesture, "Thing You Hate," she cleared her throat uncomfortably, "a lot of them...Us, I guess, have one underlying thing in common."

Sam kept his mouth shut and refrained from voicing his own opinion of what most Supernatural fans had in common.

"A lot of… us… are broken," that surprised him. Broken? He studied her face on the screen but said nothing. "…hurting. I thought it was just me… But it's not. I've talked with soo many people who live with the ramifications of abuse or chronic illness, who were depressed, suicidal, had lost all hope, and then at that rock bottom, low point, they found the Supernatural books. Many people credit the books for helping them, saving them, keeping them fighting.

People seem to find hope and comfort in the Supernatural books in a similar way to how they do with the Bible."

Sam huffed in derision. "People find hope in …?!" He scowled, waved a hand.

"People find hope in the bible, so yeah why not? Have you read the bible Sam? Quite frankly there's a whole lot of nasty in it too. Even God's favourites have a crap time, especially God's favourites … look at Job."

"So, what, you think that the Supernatural books are a … a what? A cosmic it could be worse story?"

Michele closed her eyes briefly. "You know nothing Jon Snow…" She said, but gave him a hint of a smile as she said it, teasing him subtly, coaxing him to do better.  
"The bible's about love, choice, sacrifice, salvation and relationship. It's proof that we aren't alone in what we suffer. There's a lot of bad in the bible... but there's also a lot of good. Just like your story. Love, choice, sacrifice, salvation and relationship. Those things are stars that light the darkness.A light in dark places, when all other lights go out."

"Lord of the Rings?"

"Yup, nothing original here." She muttered, and he could tell she was staring pensively at her computer screen, and the words of her story.

"Michele… Chucks books, why does it matter, the Why?"

"Maybe it doesn't," she admited and gave him a smile that was sad round the edges. "Maybe asking why is childish… My girls they asked why, why, why when they went through _that_ phase, I don't think they even stopped to listen to the answers. I used to short circuit them by asking what colour the kitchen sponge was.

Johnny, he'd asked why and suck the information out of every answer, use it to formulate his next question like a lawyer cross examining a witness on the stand.  
Chris, he doesn't even say the word yet… and I'm not sure when or if I'll ever hear him say it." She bit her lip. "Why do I have to write Sam? There's somewhere between 30 and 80 people reading the blasted _thing_ I'm writing, The _Thing_ You Hate, the _**Thing**_ that you don't want your brother knowing about ... I've read the parable of the 99 sheep a zillion times, I wonder sometimes if maybe that's what the Supernatural books and my fic are, God's way of going after those lost sheep."

….

Michele blinked her way out of the memory.

"I'm not willing that any might perish Michele. For human's physical death is not the same as perishing. Caitlin didn't lose her mother, she is just parted from her for a while. Your son Davi' is waiting for you in heaven too.  
I offer all of my creation a redemption arc.  
Even Lucifer.  
Some are longer than others, because they need to be.  
I give all a chance to play out their own story of love, choice, sacrifice, salvation and relationship."

 **...…...**

 **A/N Hi folks, its been a while. I know.**

 **All I can say is life has been hard of late, and there hasn't been enough of me to go round. Teenaged girls really do bugger up the best laid plans. That and this chapter has been like herding cats.  
** **Regardless, I've been choosing my priorities based on keeping the greatest number of people happy.  
So, if this fic makes you happy shoot me a review and let me know.**


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